


i'll yield to the flood of your beauty

by morecircumspect



Series: our steps will always rhyme (you know my love goes with you) [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, During Canon, Falling In Love, Farmhouse of Love, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Homosexuality, Multiple Sex Positions, Nicknames, POV Alternating, Pillow Talk, Post-Canon, Romance, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Content, Smoking, Trauma, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Various Kinks, Veterans, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 17:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 122,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22347430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morecircumspect/pseuds/morecircumspect
Summary: "You remember, I told you about my grandparents’ farmhouse up near Harrogate, spent a couple of summers there as a boy. Lovely country.”“You said, yeah.”“Well, it - the house, that is - stayed in the family after the old folks passed away. My parents’re always saying they’d ideally like to move there and leave me the York house in due course, but the place needs some serious tender loving care before then. Anyway, I’ve been thinking my Mum probably wouldn’t mind if I went up there for a couple days, did a bit of dusting and weeding. Only a bit, mind.” Richard chuckles and falls silent for a minute. “So, er… how’s that sound for a getaway?”Thomas and Richard form a connection during the royal visit and spend one night together. Letters and phone calls follow, but like any pair of new lovers, they hanker for a little privacy. The Ellises' farmhouse in the Yorkshire countryside proves just the ticket.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: our steps will always rhyme (you know my love goes with you) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791532
Comments: 411
Kudos: 580





	1. Thomas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [athens7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/athens7/gifts).



> As with my previous story, the title was taken from the song 'Take This Waltz' by Leonard Cohen. Not the same 'verse, but a different take on what might have happened after the drive back from York. Slightly darker in tone but hopefully enjoyable all the same. Will end up being at least M in rating I think. There will also be POV changes between Thomas and Richard.
> 
> Contains references to a canonical suicide attempt.

**PART ONE**

"Well, Mr. Barrow, I'll say goodnight."

Thomas nods, but although he opens his mouth to return the sentiment, the words somehow stick in his throat. Ellis looks at him, waiting, hand poised on the door handle. His bedroom is closer to the stairs they've just climbed; Thomas's is further along the corridor, a few doors down in fact, and Thomas finds himself wishing they were closer together. Not that it would make any difference if they were. Not that there would be any point. He just knows he is sorry for the parting. More sorry than he can put into words.

_Say something, for God's sake. You had plenty words to spare before, in the car and outside and downstairs. Going on and on about gratitude and being cut from the same cloth and 'you and me against the world'-_

"Mr. Ellis, er..." He glances left and right, even if he's not exactly sure why. It was very late when they got back, everyone had already gone up to bed and the attics are almost eerily quiet, the doors all closed and the rooms' occupants sound asleep. Under any other circumstances, he would have hoped to find someone still up, Miss Baxter or Mrs. Patmore or Mr. Molesley even, anyone who could have told him how the dinner went. If the phone call from the post office had achieved its purpose. But as things stand, and after the night he's had, he's relieved he won't have to face anyone until the morning.

Ellis is still waiting patiently for him to find his tongue again, mouth curved into a mildly expectant smile. He is ever so nice, Mr. Ellis, an agreeable chap if ever there was one, but he is also quite difficult to read, and it occurs to Thomas that as much as he would like for him to save this awkward moment for the both of them - preferably by leaning across the gap and kissing him - that is not going to happen this time.

_What did you think, though? That he'd be hoping for a shag with a man who left him in the lurch to go dancing with someone else? He'd have to be some sort of saint. Or really fucking desperate._

"Mr. Ellis," he reiterates, and he takes off his hat to emphasise the point he wants to make, "have I told you yet that I am so very dreadfully-"

"... So dreadfully sorry that you walked out with the first bloke who made eyes at you and sent me on a wild goose chase across town just to make sure you saw Downton again?" His smile never wavers, and it is Thomas who can't hold eye contact at this point. "You may have mentioned something of the sort."

Thomas flinches and drops his shoulders, finding a random point on the floor to stare at while he gets his bearings. Ellis doesn't speak with malice - he hasn't known the man long, but he knows that's not in his nature - but his words sting all the same.

"You have every right to be upset with me, Mr. Ellis." _What I don't get is why you're not, not as much as you could be._ "I should've just stayed put. The pub was nice enough. Inconspicuous. Good beer on tap."

Mr. Ellis makes no response, and Thomas wishes that he would. He rambles on, "It's not that I wasn't looking forward to our night out. I _was_. More than I think I wanted to admit. It's a rare occasion for me to grab a pint and talk to someone, as mates. I didn't even care if you were _like that_ or not, I thought we might get on either way." Somehow he finds it in himself to look up from the floor and meet Ellis's gaze, making sure to keep his voice low just in case anyone is still awake to overhear. "I waited over two hours in that place. Sitting at the bar with only my beer for company. The barkeep was giving me looks, other patrons too. The longer it went on, the more I imagined they were talking about me. I felt like a right idiot, a sitting duck. I don't know why, I wasn't doing anything wrong. But I felt people looked at me and just _knew_. Being like me, you get paranoid sometimes."

"I know the feeling," Ellis says softly, and Thomas is grateful for the reassurance. It gives him the strength of heart to plunge forward.

"Look, I know it was stupid to leave with Webster when I didn't know the man. But I wanted to get out of there so badly by that point. And I guess... I guess I assumed you'd forgotten about me." The final confession is the hardest to make. It makes him feel small, and he hates that, but it is important to him that Ellis should understand. Cringing slightly, he waits, feeling like he is teetering on some sort of edge.

_Voilà and presto, Mr. Ellis, I have bared to you my soul. I hope you can appreciate the privilege._

Ellis is no longer smiling, but there's a softness in his eyes that's come to the forefront in the last few moments. "Forgotten you?" he asks. "Is that likely, giving the arm-twisting I had to do to get you to go out with me in the first place?"

Ellis is quite the master at the spoken word. Thomas is fairly certain he isn't _trying_ to make Thomas blush, and yet that is exactly what ends up happening every time.

"You didn't twist my arm," he protests. "I wouldn't say that."

"Made me ask more than once, though."

"Only because I thought you were making sport of me the first time," Thomas blurts, and then immediately wishes it unsaid. Mr. Ellis's composure cracks, brow furrowing as he observes Thomas a little too attentively for his liking. Thomas wishes he would take off his hat; the wide brim of his fedora casts shadows on his face, making him even harder to read in the already poorly lit corridor.

"Mr. Barrow," he finally says softly, "you don't think much of yourself, do you?"

"Haven't got much reason to," Thomas mutters. "I'm not the man you like to think I am. That is, I'm trying to mend my ways, have been trying, ever since-"

He abruptly stops, grasping his left wrist in his hand. It still bears the brunt of the damage done by the razor, and he swallows as he remembers the emotional agony that brought him to that act of desperation, the astonishingly gentle care he'd received from some of the people he'd treated the worst, the long slow climb back to health and hope. Keen-eyed Mr. Ellis doesn't miss the gesture.

"We all have our scars, Mr. Barrow," he says gently, and Thomas can't tell if his choice of words is coincidental or deliberate. "I certainly won't judge you for yours."

"You might be the first." Thomas drops his hands, letting his arms hang by his sides. He realises he's muttering at the floor again and makes an effort to lift his head. "Please, just... tell me if you accept my apology. It would mean a lot to me if you did."

"If that is the case, Mr. Barrow, of course I will gladly say it, even if I feel an apology is not owed. I did keep you waiting longer than I meant to. Please believe I was never angry with you, only scared for your wellbeing." He does finally take off his hat, and Thomas breathes a sigh of relief at seeing the old Ellis emerge. "So please rest easy, and let's end the day on a positive note. I would much rather see you smile than frown."

Thomas sheepishly takes the hand Ellis - _Richard, his name is Richard, it says so on his card_ \- holds out to him, shakes it, and for a moment they just stand there like that, hands clasped in the space between them.

Is this how friendships are forged? With a chat, a shared secret or two and a handshake to seal the deal?

Thomas eventually does manage a smile, releasing Ellis's hand against his own inclination. "I wish we could have talked more. But I suppose I should let you go to get some sleep. It's been quite a night for both of us."

There is a moment's pause, and it looks as though Ellis might be about to say something, but eventually decides against it. He nods. "Good night, then, Mr. Barrow."

"Good night, Mr. Ellis."

By the time Thomas gets to his room and chances a look back, Ellis has already gone.


	2. Richard

Richard had felt at home in Downton from the first.

And in a sense he _is_ home. Despite having grown up in the city - York - he had spent many an idyllic summer at his grandparents' farm near Harrogate as a lad and learned to love the rolling Yorkshire countryside, climbing trees with the local farmers' sons and fishing in the little streams and scratching his arms and legs on the brambles when they played at war like Indians and cowboys. That was long before 1914, obviously, long before he landed at Zeebrugge with his battalion and long before he looked straight into hell at Ypres. There, in the trenches, Private Ellis of the Yorkshire Regiment had looked up at the sky every so often and tried, just for a moment, to let the sun warm him the way it had when he was eight and eating strawberries in his grandparents' backyard.

In short, Yorkshire is in his blood. And even though he'd had the privilege of visiting many beautiful estates during his time with the royal household, something about Downton Abbey - from its picturesque placement in the surrounding park to the little turrets reaching skyward and the way it seemed to absorb the sunlight into the warm limestone of its outer shell - captured his eye from the moment the car turned into the drive. A little bit of Westminster in the north.

Pretty, was the word that came to mind. Very very pretty.

"It was beautifully renovated in the 1840s by the 5th Earl, the current Earl's grandfather," he said to no one in particular. He wasn't traveling in the most talkative company, but he never let that stop him from making small talk regardless. "You can really recognise Sir Barry's hand, can't you?"

As expected, it was a wasted effort trying to get his fellow travelers to see some beauty in something that wasn't Buckingham Palace. Mr. Wilson merely huffed. Miss Lawton sneered, "Didn't know you to be such a coinnoisseur of architecture, Mr. Ellis."

He winked at her and she scowled back. She was a character, Miss Lawton, but he didn't mind her as much as he did some of the others. "I think the place is beautiful. And it looks very nicely maintained, even beyond what they must have done to spruce up for the visit. You can always tell when a place has been well-loved and cared for."

"Best reserve judgment until you see the guest rooms," she said with a long-suffering sigh, and turned to continue gazing out the window. She did like her comfort, that one, as did most of the royal staff. Richard had been at Buckingham Palace long enough to see people from the humblest beginnings grow too big for their boots in a matter of months. Not him, he hoped, as he tried to keep a sense of wonder about life and to meet the little discomforts and challenges with good humour. It made for a far more interesting and rewarding experience almost every time.

He was glad for the chance to get out of the car and use his legs. The drive from Raby Castle was not very long, but any stretch of time spent in a confined space with Wilson and Lawton felt like at least double that, and the fresh air was equally as welcome. Naturally Mr. Wilson was already finding fault with their hosts before they had even made an appearance.

"I see no one could be bothered to wait in the drive and greet the car. No sense of courtesy, these barbarians. Ellis, go ring the doorbell."

Richard did. "I'm sure someone will appear before too long, Mr. Wilson," he said brightly as he went about removing suitcases from the boot. "You wrote to announce our arrival, didn't you?"

"I wrote to tell them _exactly_ what time we'd get here," Mr. Wilson spat. "You'd think a simple reception wouldn't be too much to ask of these people. I was somewhat optimistic when I heard they still employed a butler here at least, chap named Barrow, but if this is the level of hospitality we should expect-"

Just then, a man in butler's livery came tumbling out the door. He looked impeccably starched and buttoned, flustered, and at least twenty years younger than any butler Richard remembered seeing for over a decade. Too young, without a doubt, to pass Mr. Wilson's muster. "Greetings, Mr. Wilson..."

The butler - Barrow, allegedly - proceeded to chaperone them downstairs and very diligently too, taking several sprints to try and stay ahead of Mr. Wilson who waltzed on through at a brisk pace, holding doors and keeping an upbeat and courteous demanour throughout despite being treated like air by both of Richard's companions. Richard wanted to tell him, _just breathe_ , but only found the opportunity for an encouraging nod or two.

By the time they entered the house, he'd established that Barrow had grey eyes and that he wore his jet black hair short on the sides and longer on top, neatly parted over his right ear. Modern, fashionable, but not extravagant.

By the time they reached the downstairs and entered the servants' hall, he'd been able to add a handsome smile and incredible cheekbones to the tally. Barrow had height, too; Richard was used to standing taller than most people, including the King, but Barrow's shoulders were almost level with his.

And by the time Mr. Wilson finished walking the Downton staff through the protocol in his usual authoritative manner, treading on quite a few toes as per usual, Richard's gaze had crossed Mr. Barrow's at least three times and the tally had officially become a list - a list tentatively and privately titled 'Things I Like About Mr. Barrow' that had continued to exponentially grow over the next couple of days as he found out more about the man.

He found out that his parents were still alive but didn't live close by and that he had at least an older sister who was somehow connected to the soft-spoken Miss Baxter, with whom Barrow had a rather sweet, sibling-type of relationship.

He found out that he'd served in the Royal Army Medical Corps and that his first name was Thomas, but only because Mrs. Hughes slipped up once, addressing him as though he were still a footman. Mr. Barrow didn't correct her; in fact, he didn't even seem to mind all that much, which was significant.

He found out that Mr. Barrow liked a cup of Earl Grey with his crossword puzzle and had a cynical streak to him and looked rather smashing in shirtsleeves. He read a lot on his downtime, mostly adventure novels and of course the newspaper, religiously every day. He was sharp-minded, knowledgeable and obviously _excellent_ at his job, which made the fact that he'd been taken off duty for the duration of the visit even more baffling. He'd been understandably bitter for an hour or so, but after that he'd been surprisingly blasé about it, refusing to hear a bad word spoken about Lady Mary. "She's just nervous," he said, shrugging. "Mr. Talbot being away always affects her mood, and she'd never admit it, but I guess she missed the strong manly shoulder of Mr. Carson to lean on."

Richard had wondered then if that final remark was significant, or if he was only making it seem so through sheer force of will. It was the only indication of _maybe he is_ he'd had to go on until- well, until he saw Mr. Barrow and a few dozen other men being carted off to the police station a few hours ago. Up until that point Mr. Barrow didn't seem to have picked up on any of the hairpins Richard had been dropping left and right. Or perhaps the man is just exceedingly cautious even for their standards.

If anything good has come of this night, it is that now at least they both _know_. Richard won't soon forget that moment outside the police station and the way Mr. Barrow's eyes had widened when the penny dropped at long last. Richard doesn't usually touch men's lips out in the open on a public street, but _desperate times, and all that._

The drive back to Downton had been very pleasant. Two ordinary blokes having a chat, just like Mr. Barrow had said. And Richard hopes he's succeeded in talking Mr. Barrow down from the ledge, so to speak, in the corridor earlier. The man certainly has a side to him that hasn't really come to the forefront before - a lack of self-respect Richard has seen in others like them. There was a time when he'd definitely been heading down the same path, so he can easily recognise it in others.

Still, when they shook hands just now, he'd allowed himself to hope Mr. Barrow would take a chance and step across that threshold - figuratively and literally. Richard had done everything but ask outright. But looking back on it now, he isn't entirely sure why he'd stopped at that final hurdle. It wasn't pride, or anything like that. Nor shyness either, for that matter - that is something he's never really struggled with. A good thing, too - it is difficult enough for men like him to find each other in a crowd without that handicap. Valuable time often gets wasted on reconnaissance, and Richard has experienced the regret of an opportunity slipping through his fingers one or two times too many.

He doesn't want Mr. Barrow to be another name in that sad file. But it won't do to force the situation and end up spooking an already skittish horse, either. Thomas has been rather through enough for a night.

With a sigh, he hangs up his coat and hat and switches on the lamp before sitting down on the bed, pulling loose his tie and flinging it onto the cover beside him. Then he props his elbows on his knees and remains like that for a while, wondering what in God's good name he is going to do next.


	3. Thomas

Thomas shuts the door of his room behind him - taking care to do so quietly - and realises almost at once that he has made a grave mistake.

Their Majesties are leaving tomorrow.

 _Mr. Ellis_ is leaving tomorrow.

Mr. Ellis is _leaving,_ and Thomas is in all likelihood never going to see him again. When for the first time in all his life, he's met a bloke he can be himself around, someone kind and respectable and witty who doesn't seem to mind his company and looks like someone who ought to make his living appearing in the pictures and who says the most astonishing things without batting an eye, like _we should go to York and have some fun_ and _if you need any help making that phone call I know just the trick_ and _I would rather see you smile, Mr. Barrow_.

It is enough to make a man lose his head, and his heart into the bargain if he isn't careful.

Even with Jimmy, he could never truly be himself, because Jimmy only ever wanted to know the part of Thomas that was agreeable to him, and even that was more than most people - most men - are willing to do. Women tend to be kinder for whatever reason; perhaps that reason is simply pity. He is no great fan of the pity. But these days he'll take it over the alternative anytime.

He doesn't always wise up quickly, but he _has_ wised up some, and he likes to think he can recognise a good thing when he sees it. Which probably explains the searing pain he feels in his chest at the realisation that this was probably the last time they could speak freely and uninhibitedly, as wholly themselves. In the morning things will be quite different, with eyes and ears lurking around every corner once again. They probably won't even be able to say a private goodbye.

And now he's walked away from his last chance to tell the man to his face what it's all meant, not just the saving his life part but the whole two days, the friendly chats and the _you look a bit glum, what's happened?_ and the shared looks behind Mr. Wilson's back and just... having someone in his corner, not because he owed him anything or had any ulterior motives but simply because he wanted to be there for some reason.

He'd been a bit blind, in hindsight. Not that he hadn't wondered about Ellis - he _had_ \- but he had dismissed those little niggles outright, telling himself _don't go there, you've been wrong before, he's not like that and even if he was…_

His past experiences have made him cautious, it's true. Before this evening, he hasn't touched a man in years, not since before he locked himself in the bathroom and opened his veins just to end the agony he was in. But even if he were to decide it's not too late and knock on Ellis's bedroom door at this ungodly hour, would he actually be able to get the words out or would he just end up twisting his tongue in knots and lose his nerve again?

He leans his forehead against the door and closes his eyes, wondering what has happened to the Thomas of old, who'd brazenly set his cap at a duke and had him too, who hadn't been afraid to go for broke where the matters of the heart - or the more base desires - were concerned. He hasn't always cast his line in the best waters - one only has to think of Jimmy and the late Mr. Pamuk - but at least he's caught a few fat trouts in his time.

The sad truth is he's gotten older, and afraid. Of making a wrong move, cocking up, losing the good things he does have. Like he came too close to doing tonight.

_Weren't afraid to go with Webster, though, were you? Knowing full well what he was offering, making eyes and smiling like that._

He groans when he thinks of Webster. And of Ellis, waiting outside, knowing the kind of place Turton's is and choosing to keep his distance because apparently he has better sense than most. Would he have waited long? Long enough to see Thomas and Webster come out again? Long enough to then be faced with the decision whether to follow and wait some more or give up and leave Thomas to find a different means of transport back to Downton once he'd had his bit of fun?

"Fuck," he mutters, because he's alone and Mrs. Hughes isn't here to tell him off for it, "bloody fucking hell."

He opens the door. He can't remember thinking about it, he just suddenly straightens up, grabs the handle and turns it.

And unexpectedly finds himself looking into the startled face of Mr. Ellis, who has one hand halfway raised in the air as if about to knock.

For a moment, they just stare at one another. Ellis lowers his hand somewhat sheepishly, caught at a moment of uncertainty for the first time, and Thomas almost finds it reassuring.

And then there is the fact that Ellis's shy grin almost brings his heart to a stop.

"Sorry to disturb, Mr. Barrow," he finally says, in a voice that gives nothing away even if he does sound a fraction out of breath, "but might I have a word?"

"A word?"

"About the, er, room. My guest room, that is. Might I come in for a minute? I'd like to file a complaint."

Thomas's stomach drops with disappointment, but he steps aside to let Ellis enter. "You had no complaints about the room yesterday that I recall. Whatever it is, I'm sure it's nothing Mr. Carson hasn't heard from your associates already. I know the beds are a tad small, but we once employed a 6'4" footman here and he made do. You palace people are just impossibly spoiled..."

He trails off when Ellis turns to face him. Ellis is without a jacket and tie, but it's his expression more than anything that makes Thomas's breath catch in his throat. "The door, please, Mr. Barrow..." he says softly, and Thomas, _finally,_ gets it.

As in, the truth hitting him right between the eyes all at once.

He shuts the door with a trembling hand, locks it too, because he is done being stupid for the day, and barely has the latch clicked into place or Ellis has crossed the distance and is kissing him, and Thomas twists his fingers into his hair and kisses him back with vigour, because he's finally caught up now and this he can do, this he _wants_ to do.

God, does he ever.

All too soon they part, breathing hard and looking at each other, gauging. Grinning a bit. "Not a complaint then?" Thomas checks, and Ellis's grin widens. "You are too cunning a liar for your own good, Mr. Ellis."

"It's a useful skill to have. And people I've kissed should call me Richard. Or Dick." He nods at the door. "You surprised me there. How did you know I was outside?"

"Didn't. I was going to knock on your door. I think. To ask you a question."

"By all means, ask."

Thomas blushes. "It's embarrassing."

"I promise I won't laugh," Richard says earnestly. "Please."

It seems to be a matter of some importance to Ellis, and Thomas reckons he owes him this much. "You said you waited for me, outside, at Turton's."

"Yes."

"And you knew what was going on inside. Why I was there."

"Had a pretty good idea."

"How... how long were you prepared to wait?" Thomas elaborates, "If the raid hadn't happened, how long would you've waited out there while I did God knows what with Webster?"

With a shrug, Richard replies, "'s Long as it took, I suppose. All night, if I had to."

"That's... incredibly generous."

Richard grins. "I think 'pathetic' is the word you're looking for."

"If you like." Thomas returns the grin, shaking his head in astonishment at this wonder of a man. "But why would you put up with that?"

"Because without me you'd have been stranded in York without a means of transport," Ellis explains with saintly patience, "and I'd have hated for you to be late for your first day back in the livery. And for the more selfish reason that I simply enjoy your company. In fact, Mr. Barrow, as I've been trying and trying and _trying_ to make clear to you over the past two days, I find you very handsome and completely enchanting and every time my eye catches yours, I am left breathless."

_Well. Knock me down with a feather._

Thomas is gaping at Ellis, who is gauging the effect of his words with the smallest of quirks of his lips, just a hint of trepidation behind the smile. He doesn't look entirely sure of what Thomas is going to say next, and that is all on Thomas, isn't it. He's been greener than a débutante in her first season and left him guessing.

"That is exactly how you make _me_ feel," he stammers, and it's a sorry thing, as far as love declarations go, volleying this fine man's eloquence back at him, but he never claimed to be a wordsmith - that's Ellis's special gift. To make up for the deficiency, he closes the gap before Ellis can and carelessly drops his hat so he can put _both_ hands in Ellis's hair as they fall into a joyous kiss.

This time, they do not stop.


	4. Richard

“I can’t believe we left the light on,” Thomas says as he brings his right hand to his mouth and takes a drag of his cigarette before passing it on to Richard, who accepts. Neither breaks eye contact as Richard fills his lungs and the tip of the cigarette glows a bright amber. It’s an intimate act, sharing a smoke with another man, but they’ve done more and far better than that in the preceding half hour. The smoking is just a very pleasant aftermath.

“Fumbling around in the dark more your thing?”

Thomas punches him, but he’s smiling. “Just don’t feel like answering any questions in the morning, that’s all. If anyone were to go to the bathroom and see I’m still up… I’m not exactly known for being a night owl.”

“You’re not? Colour me surprised.” For that, he gets punched again, and he hands the cigarette back with a chuckle. Another drag, another comfortable stretch of silence. Richard isn’t sorry for the light; in it Thomas is pale and smooth like alabaster, dark hair tousled and mouth passion-bruised. There’s nothing in him that betrays shyness or anything but relaxation and contentment; as a matter of fact, he seems happy to be looked at. Happy to look.

“Not a boy anymore,” he says, “carrying on until the wee hours. I’m the butler now. Got to keep my wits about me if I’m to keep this house running like clockwork.”

Richard reaches for the ashtray on the bedside table and places it on the coverlet so Thomas can flick the ash. He tries to be nonchalant about it, but Thomas raises his eyebrows at the gesture all the same. “I just don’t want you to burn yourself,” Richard sheepishly explains, “or set the room ablaze for that matter.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Thomas says, and Richard remembers then - the house fire. Lady Edith. When Thomas told him, he’d known from the way he underplayed his own swift and adequate response to the crisis just how heroic his actions had been. Thomas the boy might have bragged about it, but not the man.

“I apologise.”

“You’re worse than an old woman,” Thomas scolds him, but he’s gentle about it and brushes Richard’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, “fussing like that. I’m already riddled with scars, what’s one more?”

Richard closes his eyes, resisting the urge to ask about the raised ridges of scar tissue he accidentally felt on the insides of Thomas’s wrist when they were undressing each other earlier. Thomas had pulled away, abruptly but not angrily, and while Richard can put two and two together on his own, he hopes Thomas will give him his confidence one day.

“Have you found mine yet?” he asks, and Thomas looks at him, questioning. Richard plucks the smouldering stub from his fingers, takes a quick hit and crushes it in the ashtray. Then he rolls over _carefully_ \- they’ve pushed Thomas’s bed and the spare together, but the bedsprings of the spare creak something dreadful and they have to be vigilant about their movements so as not to wake Albert in the next room - and takes Thomas’s hand, guiding it around to his lower back. Thomas looks intently upon his face, eyes widening when his fingers find the indentation where muscle tissue never properly regrew, and he measures its shape gingerly. “Where?” he whispers.

“The Somme,” Richard says, and Thomas’s face falls. “It was artillery shells that got me in the end, after trench fever and influenza tried and failed. My Mum always said I was the only one of her children to survive infancy because I was such a stout little chap, but you wouldn’t have said that if you’d seen me in the trenches. Any epidemic that swept through the regiment, I caught it. This wound took me out of commission good and proper, though. I developed sepsis and very nearly died.”

Thomas looks pensive, taking this all in. “Wounded in the service of King and country…”

“As were you,” Richard says, but turns out this was the wrong thing to say. Thomas flinches and part of him closes off, just for a moment. “Thomas, I know you did it to get sent home. Trust me, no man or woman who was _there_ would judge you for that. I might’ve done it myself if I’d had the nerve.”

“The nerve,” Thomas scoffs, getting wound up, but Richard won’t hear more.

“Yes,” he insists, “I think you have nerve, Thomas Barrow. Buckets of it.”

He considers it a good sign that he hasn’t been kicked out of the bed yet for being mouthy. He’s known men almost as prickly as Thomas who would have done it for less. Who _had_ done it for less.

“‘s Hardly the same as bravery,” Thomas mutters.

“Isn’t it? I charged at the enemy knowing that at any point in time my head might get shot off, because those were my orders. I wasn’t doing that for my king and country and neither was the man next to me. I was doing it because I’d been drafted and been trained and told to follow orders or get shot for cowardice. At night, in our bunks, it was all we could talk about, the different ways to escape from that hell with our lives. In the end it was all just talk, though - no one I knew had the inner steel to attempt it. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I was any braver than you for sticking it out a couple months longer, Thomas.”

“Enough,” Thomas says softly, fumbling around for another cigarette. Richard lights it for him. Their eyes meet again, and Thomas wraps his fingers around Richard’s to keep the flame steady. Unnecessarily, really, but Richard doesn’t mind.

Thomas takes a few drags in silence and Richard watches, as he’s gladly done for a while now. He wonders if Thomas knows the shapes his mouth makes when he smokes are provocative enough to stir a man’s cock, and if it would be wise to clue him in.

“Where did you convalesce?” Thomas asks after a bit.

So they are going to talk about this some more, after all.

“Sussex, someplace. They just plunked me there at random, I didn’t know anyone.”

“Usually how it went, wasn’t it.” Thomas passes the cigarette and folds his hands behind his head. “Just think - if they’d sent you locally, you might’ve ended up here.”

“Wouldn’t’ve minded,” Richard says. “Much closer to home, for one. I could’ve met your Lady Sybil. Or Nurse Crawley, as she was then.” Thomas smiles sadly. “Could’ve met Lance Sergeant Barrow, long before he wore butler’s breeches.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me then,” Thomas says matter-of-factly, almost dismissively. “I’m still not quite sure why you do now, to be perfectly honest.”

“I’m sure I would’ve found one or two things to like about you, Mr. Barrow,” he says, and it’s a risqué joke, but it does the trick and puts a smile on Thomas’s face.

“You are quite crass when you choose to be, _Mr. Ellis_ ,” he says pointedly.

“You don’t know which things I had in mind just now.”

“Why don’t you tell me, then?” Thomas reaches up and softly runs his fingers through Richard’s hair. It feels spontaneous, like something he’s done without thinking, and Richard likes that very much. (Although he likes being touched with purpose too, but all in good time.)

“I don’t mind admitting I like a man in uniform as much as the next person. I’m sure Lance Sergeant Barrow was a fine thing to behold.”

“And you would’ve noticed this while feverish and septic, would you?” Thomas says with a sarcastic curl of his mouth, but he does blush.

For a moment, Richard allows himself to think back on his days at the convalescent home, the injuries he’d seen and the cries of shell-shocked soldiers that had kept him awake at night. In many ways, it was no better than being at the front. It was safe, and he had the comforts of a clean bed and food in his stomach and a nurse’s hand to change his dressings, but the war between his ears still raged, and continued to do so for a long time. “Seeing you would have been the bright spark in my day,” he finally says, much more seriously than Thomas may have anticipated. He takes his hand, the gloved one, and kisses his fingers slowly. “You wouldn’t have liked _me_ , come to think of it. I was angry. Very very angry. I once lashed out at a nurse and made her cry. Most shameful thing I ever did.”

“I believe you.” Thomas’s fingers play at Richard’s collarbone, thoughtful. “I believe that when you are in a bad place, and hurting, you could lash out at people like that with your tongue. It’s a force for good or ill.”

“My tongue?” Richard swallows, as Thomas’s fingers wander up the column of his throat, pressing lightly against his Adam’s apple. Are they talking about the war still, or is this evolving into something else at a rapid pace? He doesn’t want to look down too blatantly, but he is almost sure that Thomas is spent and flaccid no longer but growing hard as they speak.

He wouldn’t be the only one.

“I’m sure you can keep up with me in that respect, Thomas,” he says, clearing his throat. “Every step of the way, as you so aptly demonstrated before.”

With any other man, he might have been embarrassed by the swiftness with which he fell apart once Thomas took him into his mouth earlier. Thomas himself preferred the steady touch of Richard’s hand to tip him over the edge, at least he had then.

“I enjoyed that,” Thomas says, drawing his thumb along Richard’s lower lip and letting out a soft gasp when Richard sucks it inside. “You were beautiful in your moment of rapture… ah, _God_.”

_You are beautiful, full stop. But it might be pushing my luck to tell you that again so soon._

“Can you…” Thomas is positively riveted by what Richard’s mouth is doing to his thumb. “Can you do that for me, next? Would you?”

Richard would’ve suggested it himself in a minute. But he is thrilled that Thomas beats him to it - that he wants it enough to ask. He frees up his mouth and discreetly discards the still-smouldering cigarette and the ashtray, kissing Thomas intently and slowly rolling on top of him - almost without making a sound this time, they are learning - while the echoes of artillery fire and the whisperings of ghosts long gone fade into the background and they are both simply glad to be alive.

He is going to take his time for this.


	5. Thomas

"Does it hurt, still?"

Thomas traces the shell of Richard’s ear with his forefinger, twirls a lock of warm brown hair around it. He’s very comfortable, draped over Richard’s back and shoulders as he is, both of them facing down. Thomas doesn’t know where the pillow has gone and doesn’t care, nor is he still entertaining thoughts of getting out of bed to switch off the light. He’s perfectly happy to lie here and let his fingers explore and memorise what they find. He’s liked looking at Mr. Ellis from the outset, but it’s only tonight that he has the opportunity to put together a picture of the man with the eyes of a lover, to map his body and taste his skin and find out what his neck smells like. Thomas has been on a journey of discovery since their first kiss and his senses are overwhelmed and thrumming, he’s drunk on it and yet still parched.

That’s how men like them have to get by, isn’t it - the chances they get are so few and far between, they have to squeeze them dry for every drop. Which is why they are resisting sleep despite both being satisfied - several times over.

“The old war wound, you mean?” Being in the position that they are, Thomas feels the vibration in his own body when Richard speaks. “On some days it does.”

“Mmm.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah,” Thomas murmurs, permitting himself another nuzzle of the back of Richard’s neck, trailing the tip of his nose against the grain of his hair. “Some days.”

“We’re the lucky ones,” Richard says.

“Doesn’t always feel that way.”

“Yeah,” Richard agrees, “I know.” He is not just saying that, either. Like most veterans, he too knows the isolation of walking around in a fog all one’s own some days, when the sun seems shrouded no matter how clear the sky and the shadows one hoped to have left in the past come creeping back in. He knows the duality of pinning the 1914 Star to one’s lapel and going out to bring a salute on Remembrance Sunday. Looking out over a sea of red poppies.

“Does now, though,” Thomas ventures after a moment, feeling daring, and Richard turns his face towards him slightly.

“Does it? Really?”

“Yeah,” Thomas breathes, and he leans in to kiss what he can reach of Richard’s mouth, which is only the corner. “I wish we could stay like this all night, but…”

“We can’t. I know.” Richard begins to shift under him, and they adjust positions so Richard is facing up instead of down. He lifts his hand to Thomas’s face and there is a warmth in his eyes when he says, “Should I take this as my cue to leave, then?”

He should probably answer yes, while the house is still quiet. “No,” he says, and then “kiss me,” and Richard promptly obliges, tugging Thomas closer and rising up to meet him halfway. It’s a gentle kiss, soft and long and fond, different in nature still than everything preceding it. He presses himself closer and palms Richard’s chest, grips his shoulder.

“I wish we didn’t always have to be so bloody careful,” he says fervently when they part to catch their breaths. “We could have done this days ago if only we’d known-”

“Wasn’t for a lack of trying on my part,” Richard grins in a way that makes Thomas’s stomach swoop. No man should be this cocky naked or be allowed to smile like that, full stop. “I set my cap at you almost from the minute I arrived, Mr. Barrow, and I tried my damnedest to figure you out while dropping hints left and right, but you wouldn’t budge.” He seems amused by it now, but Thomas can only think _what a dreadful waste_. “Yesterday, in the boot room, I thought for a minute Miss Baxter had figured me out before you did. She had a certain _look_ about her. Not unfriendly, though.”

“Phyllis looks after me. Not sure why she feels the need to, but she does.” Thomas brushes his fingers along a smattering of pale freckles on Richard’s shoulder. “She does know, about me. Most everyone does, here, even upstairs. It’s the Abbey’s most public secret. But you needn’t worry about Phyl. She doesn’t have an unkind bone in her body.”

“Should I worry about any of them? Not for myself so much as for you?”

Thomas thinks about it, then shakes his head. “No, I reckon they’re all right. They seem to all have collectively decided I’m harmless enough, so long as I don’t rub my inclinations in their faces.”

_By getting yourself thrown in jail for gross indecency and bringing scandal upon the whole house, for example._

“I suppose that’s something.”

“It is. Something.”

“I’m glad, though.” Richard takes Thomas’s hand, plays thoughtlessly with his fingers. “I’m glad you are somewhere relatively safe. Glad you’ve got people looking after you. Caring about you.”

Thomas almost tells him it hasn’t always been like this. Almost tells him being tolerated and grudgingly respected isn’t the same as being loved. It doesn’t even come close to being on par with what the Bateses get to have every day, or Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, or even what keeps Mr. Molesley lurking around - the hope that one day Baxter will be struck by Cupid’s arrow and have the scales fall from her eyes just as he chances to walk by.

Because if that were to happen, at least they could get married, and move into Mr. Molesley’s little cottage in the village and no one would have a bad thing to say about it. People would tip their hats at them when walking up for Sunday church and say a friendly hello and then forget about them the next moment. Thomas envies that; he can’t think of a prize more worth having than to be forgettable and ordinary when walking down the street with someone he loves, and who loves him.

What holds him back is something he sees in Richard’s eyes - something that reminds him he doesn’t need to say all this because Richard already knows the same loneliness that comes with having to wear armour at all times. They discussed it during the drive back to Downton.

_“I’m sure I won’t work at Buckingham Palace forever,” Richard’d said, as if he were stating a simple fact. “Give it another five years at most and I’ll be out.”_

_“Why?” Thomas asked, puzzled by Ellis’s flippancy. “Surely they don’t know… about you?”_

_“No. They’re not interested in me enough to care. But the minute they begin to wonder, it’s over.” Richard gave him a sidelong glance. A resigned, knowing look in his eye. “Buckingham Palace isn’t like Downton, Mr. Barrow. Getting there isn’t as difficult as you may imagine, it’s staying that’s hard. Only the ruthlessly ambitious make it in the long run. Everyone else better get out of the way or get trampled.” He’d smiled at Thomas before turning his eyes back to the road. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you which side of the line I’d find myself on.”_

_Indeed he didn’t, and Thomas - Thomas Barrow, who had once felt that white hot kernel of ambition burning inside himself, back when status and authority felt like important things to have - heard himself asking, “If that’s how it is, why stay there? Get out before they get you.”_

_“I do like the perks,” Richard said with a shrug. “Steady wages, travel… the alibi. Being in service, I’m sure you’ve taken advantage of that yourself when it suited.” Thomas nodded. “So you see, Mr. Barrow, I am going to bide my time and keep a keen eye on the snakes in the grass until I see an exit worth taking.”_

If anyone could do it, surviving at the very top of the British establishment with a secret as potentially ruinous as theirs, Thomas reckons it would be Richard Ellis. Still, knowing a little more about the palace than he did before, he can’t help but be worried for his safety.

“What are you thinking about right now?” Richard’s soft voice cuts through his musings. “You’re miles away, I can tell.” Thomas shakes his head, looks away, but Richard cups his face. “Thomas.”

“I just wish… I wish you had someone you could trust.” It is extremely odd and novel to think of himself as the most fortunate one in this scenario, but there it is. “A Miss Baxter, or Mrs. Hughes. God knows I haven’t always got on with them, but-”

“I’ll be all right, Thomas,” Richard gently insists, and Thomas kisses him impulsively, surprising himself with the force behind it - an intuitive need to bring what Richard is saying into existence.

_I need you to be all right._

He kisses Richard again, and Richard responds with no hesitation at all, mouth opening beneath Thomas’s and it’s a thrill like nothing else, that, the feeling of being asked in. Of Richard’s tongue pressing forward, trying, tasting and clearly _wanting_. It’s everything Thomas thinks of when he finally falls into bed after a long day, being kissed like this and held like this and being pressed up against a man’s naked body exactly like this.

It escalates in no time at all, of course, as these things tend to do, and they break apart to gauge each other, and it’s the look on Richard’s face, open-mouthed and slack-jawed, that turns Thomas on faster than anything. Need churns in his belly, fills out his cock.

“Thomas,” Richard whispers, and just that, the way he says his Christian name, almost feels like an act of lovemaking in itself, intimate and lovely. “What do you-”

“I want your cock in me.” Thomas blushes, as that came out rather more directly than he’d intended. “If that’s… I mean, if that’s something you-”

“Yes.” Richard gives him a reckless grin and adds, “I enjoy the other way around too, though.”

As if Thomas needed any more reason to like him. He stares back, slack-jawed himself, and Richard trails idle fingers down his chest. “For future reference.”

Good thing Thomas keeps a secret jar of vaseline hidden by the bed for those desperate occasions when his hand on his prick doesn’t do the trick and he needs to put two of three fingers inside himself to get off. It feels _so much better_ when it’s Richard doing it, though, and it’s a wanton position Thomas finds himself in, kneeling over Richard with his legs apart, canting and undulating his pelvis around Richard’s fingers to aid him in creating just the right angle, just the right amount of friction to ease things along.

“Been a while?” Richard asks, and Thomas nods. “Been a while since it was anyone but myself doing it,” he murmurs, and Richard whines softly from the back of his throat as though the thought _does_ something to him and then curves his fingers just so and the pressure’s bloody _perfect_ . Pleasure spikes through Thomas’s body - he empties his lungs in a harsh gasp and tips his head back and feels Richard taking advantage by going in deeper and _God-_

“That’s it,” Richard softly coaxes. He doesn’t take his eyes off Thomas as he slowly twists his fingers, spreads and closes them, pumps in and out tortuously patiently. “That’s good, Thomas. Relax for me.” Thomas bites back a whimper and flexes his spine, bracing his hand on Richard’s chest as Richard introduces a third finger. “All right?” he checks, meaning the amount of vaseline, and Thomas nods. “It’s fine. ‘s Perfect. _God,_ Richard-”

“I hope your hall boy is as fast a sleeper as you say he is,” Richard says, and smirks as he goes in deep with three for the first time and curves firmly to the front on the pullout, almost as if to test whether Thomas can stand being stimulated like this without making a sound, and for a fraction of a second Thomas almost hates him for it. But two can play this game, and Thomas takes some vaseline between his fingers to spread over Richard’s prick. It doesn’t need any assistance getting hard, and Thomas sets about the task as thoroughly as circumstances permit, lathering him up from root to tip probably more liberally than strictly necessary. He loves the shape of him, the feel of him in his hand - in his mouth too, as he’s already established. He sets his thumb against the head and presses slightly, feeling his jaw twinge when moisture wells up.

“Don’t,” Richard says. He pushes his hips up slightly, sucks air in through his teeth. “I can tell you’re thinking about it.”

“What, you didn’t like it before?”

“Don’t be daft. Not the bloody point.” After one last twist of his fingers, he pulls out, and Thomas whines at the sudden void. “You’ll ride me?”

Thomas can count on one hand the number of times he’s been asked this question before, and he needs a moment to breathe. “Been a while, too,” he admits. “A long while.”

“You’ll do fine.” Richard sets his hand on Thomas’s hip, strokes gently. He’s reassuring, completely trusting in Thomas’s ability. “Go as slow as you need to.”

Thomas couldn’t have rushed this even if he wanted to. Richard prepared him well, but it always pays to take one’s time for this, and he breathes out slow as he positions himself and takes a moment to adjust to the first breach, trying to keep his mind trained on the soothing circles Richard’s fingers are making on his hip instead of the other thing. It’s a sensation that’s very much wanted, but never completely comfortable right from the outset. He lowers himself gradually, pausing once or twice before they are fully joined. It’s… a lot, but well worth the trouble. “Oh, God, Richard,” he whines, airy and plaintive, bracing his hands on the bed on both sides of Richard’s head. “Fuck.”

“My Thomas,” Richard breathes, and Thomas just about falls apart at that. He’s been called many things over the years, by men older and more powerful than him who wished to possess him in some way, at least for a night. In the past, feeling a physical attraction to or even liking the other fellow wasn’t always a prerequisite for getting naked with them; sometimes he didn’t have much of a say in the matter, sometimes it was just about opportunity and scratching an itch. But this with Richard is about something else entirely. And it is new and unknown and a little mystifying and more thrilling than anything he’s ever had, and somehow Richard managed to encapsulate all of that in those two little words.

They are forging something, here. And they’ve only got one night to do it in, which is probably why they are doing it in a fully lit room, with the people they work with sleeping just down the hall, and why they are likely not going to get any sleep at all.

He wants to reciprocate in some way, to tell him how it’s affected him, but he supposes there’ll be time for that later. He begins rocking his hips instead, and he can tell from the gasp escaping from deep within Richard’s chest that it was the right decision. He moves slowly at first, careful and controlled, but once he tips his weight back and finds an angle that really _really_ works for him, rolling his hips down on Richard’s cock more insistently, the telltale squeaking of the rusty bedsprings starts to pose a risk. The longer they do this, the more chances increase that someone’ll hear them copulating, and it occurs to Thomas that they would have done better to place the mattresses on the floor, but it’s a bit late for that now - they’re in the middle of this and by God, he’s not going to stop now come hell or high water. Richard keeps completely still so as not to add to the problem, his pursed lips and the throbbing vein in his neck the only signs that it’s a struggle. Otherwise, he looks completely entranced.

Soon, all too soon, Thomas feels himself approaching the edge, a tugging low in his belly, and he pinches his cock to stave it off. “Getting awfully close, here,” he warns between clenched teeth, “what about you?”

“Need another minute,” Richard gasps, and Thomas moans and leans back on his haunches and _commits_ \- using his pelvic muscles like he hasn’t in a long time, clenching hard while keeping his hips almost stationary - to getting Richard caught up, because it’s what honour dictates. Richard barely stifles a cry and pulls Thomas’s quilt to his mouth, raising his knees and rolling his hips up into Thomas. The friction is exquisite and there’s a sound of skin meeting skin and then Richard does it again and he’s so _deep_ and they’re all sweaty and it’s filthy and it’s fucking perfect and Thomas has to bite the heel of his thumb to keep from wailing and-

It doesn’t take a minute in the end. It’s been half that, tops, when with a sudden urgency, Richard pulls at Thomas’s arm to make him stop pinching himself and instead wraps his hand around him. Thomas comes at the second firm stroke, just before Richard rolls his hips up again and follows suit, moaning low in his chest as he convulses and lets go deep inside him. He wraps his other arm around Thomas’s waist and holds him close, both of them trembling and quietly gasping and spent.

Afterwards, they lie closely entwined, the bedding kicked down almost to the foot end of their makeshift double bed. It’s messy and they are messy and Thomas doesn’t know what he’s going to do in the morning about the soiled sheets, but he’s too happy, too tired and entirely too fucked out to care.

Not too tired to trade slow, lazy kisses, though - not too tired to nuzzle each other and breathe each other in and share besotted smiles. Not too tired for that.

“So why the spare bed in your room, anyway?” Richard eventually asks, sleepy.

“Used to be a room for two footmen,” Thomas murmurs, “back when we had more staff. Slept here all those years, didn’t see the need to take Carson’s old room when I got his job.”

“I can see the appeal.” A brief silence, and then Richard chuckles. “In all my travels, in England or abroad, I’ve never come across a house like this where servants’ bedrooms can be locked from the inside. But I’ll tell you what - I sure am glad that Downton is the exception.”


	6. Richard

The sound of persistent hammering brings Richard out of what can only be described as a semi-comatose state, and he blinks a few times, surprised at the brightness of the room. It looks suspiciously like daylight, and it seems to be originating from the direction of the window.

 _It’s going on summer_ , he reasons illogically - in his defence, he is barely coherent yet - _day breaks early this time of year_.

He stretches his limbs gingerly, and it’s only then that he realises he’s sprawled on his back, naked as the day he was born, and he’s fallen asleep in Thomas Barrow’s bed with the very same tucked up against him equally naked. For a brief second, he gets to experience that rarest of domestic pleasures, which is to wake up in a lover’s arms, but barely has his sleepy mind cottoned on to this fact or Thomas jerks awake and the moment passes.

That won’t stop him from preserving the memory as best he can, though, and tucking it into his heart like a keepsake. The night has yielded quite a few of those.

“Wha-”

The hammering isn’t hammering, on second thought, but rather a loud pounding on the door. The door that is now the only thing standing between them and ruin. From the other side of it comes a voice. “Mr. Barrow, it is past six. Are you up?”

They both scramble into a sitting position and gape at each other, Thomas groggy and bewildered, Richard mostly guilty. Mortified, is the word for it.

_Now who’s been a silly boy?_

“Mr. Barrow? Can I talk to you?”

Thomas recovers somewhat, swiftly placing his finger over Richard’s mouth. As if Richard would even think of breathing so much as a word, but he gives a nod to show him he’s understood. “Yes, Albert, just a second.”

The knocking stops, and they simultaneously release a breath, exchanging a look that requires no words. This is about as dire as it gets, but if they keep cool heads, swift and adequate action can still save them.

They get out of bed and quietly start scooping up items of clothing strewn carelessly across the floor. Richard’s heart is pounding like mad, somersaulting every time the floorboards creak under his feet, and he - unreasonably - curses the structural defects of an old house such as this. Thomas slips into his undershirt and knickers and quickly gathers the rest of their clothes without looking what belongs to whom, pushing the pile into Richard’s arms and shepherding him into the corner, the only part of the room that won’t be visible once the door is open.

The whole scene is like something out of a romance novel. Married woman helping her lover escape through the bedroom window when the husband returns home early, something like that.

“Mr. Barrow, Mr. Carson will have my hide if I’m down late.”

Richard presses himself back into the wall, shivering at the feeling of cool plaster against his bare skin. He hasn’t had occasion to put on any of the clothes he’s picked up and is still stark naked, which only adds to the precariousness of the situation. Wide-eyed and running on adrenaline - he was fast asleep only half a minute ago - he forces himself to breathe calmly, lowering his arms to hold the pile of fabric in front of his privates so there’s a modicum of modesty at least. Obviously, it won’t help him if Albert so much as peeks around the door, but it helps him feel a little less exposed.

It might be something out of a comedic film, too, if it wasn’t their whole lives at stake, here.

They exchange another glance. Thomas looks grim, and closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself - and to block out the image of Richard hiding in the corner naked, probably, because it’s a distraction he definitely doesn’t need. Then he takes a deep breath, unlocks the door and opens it, just a crack, using his body to block the two joined and well-used beds from view. “Mr. Carson isn’t the butler here anymore, Albert, I am. At least let us hope that’s still the case.”

“Yes… of course, Mr. Barrow. I know you are.” Albert clears his throat. “Mr. Barrow, you’re not dressed yet.”

From the way the boy says it, clearly shocked, Richard can tell it’s a rarity for Thomas to be lagging behind in the morning. He must run a tight ship.

“I got in quite late last night, Albert,” Thomas says, running a hand over his face and through his hair. “And since I’m not on duty, I didn’t see the need to observe the normal bathroom hierarchy. Mr. Carson will survive the very negligible anomaly of an empty chair at breakfast, surely.”

“Looks like there will be two,” says Albert, sounding concerned. “His Majesty’s valet is nowhere to be found.”

Richard feels his stomach plummet to the ground. God, this is all his fault, all the lengths he went to in keeping Mr. Barrow out of prison and now they’ll both be ruined because he fell asleep in the wrong bed...

Thomas barely pauses. “Mr. Miller?” he asks, disinterested, and yawns. Richard’s legs very nearly give out. _God_ , he thinks, impressed, _how clever you are_.

“No, the younger one. Mr. Ellis. Since you left with him yesterday, I thought-”

“Yeah, we shared a car to York. Took a very interesting detour via the post office in the village to make a call Mr. Wilson wasn’t expecting. But after we got to the city, we went our separate ways. I took a late train back to Downton. If Mr. Ellis isn’t here, he probably stayed the night at his parents’. He mentioned he might, come to think of it.”

“Oh,” Albert says. He sounds relieved, glad for the perfectly reasonable explanation to pass on to Mr. Carson. “That’s good to know. Thank you, Mr. Barrow.”

“You’re welcome, Albert. Now might I have some time and privacy to get dressed? If Mr. Carson asks, tell him he’ll have the pleasure of my company soon enough. I wouldn’t miss my morning coffee.”

“Yes, Mr. Barrow. I’ll tell him.”

“Good lad, Albert.”

Albert hurries away, and Thomas softly closes the door, standing for a moment with his eyes closed. It is only then that Richard dares to breathe again.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s learned to think on their feet,” he murmurs, and Thomas gives him a look, not smiling. He seems distant in this moment, on edge, but Richard can’t really blame him. Even if the worst of the danger seems to have been averted for now, this was far too close a call to be made light of.

He can’t believe how close he came to destroying this man’s life through sheer stupidity. How could he ever have forgiven himself if he had? It doesn’t even bear thinking about.

They get dressed, not saying a word. Together they put the spare bed back into its original place and replace the dirty sheets with clean ones. Richard wants to break the tension in some way and considers telling Thomas to use vinegar and baking powder on the stains, but refrains; it’s not as if a former footman wouldn’t already know that. Besides, who’s to say Thomas hasn’t had men visit him in his room before? Their Majesties aren’t the first to stop at Downton and bring staff with them. The room with the spare bed must have held a particular attraction.

 _Don’t_ , he tells himself, even as he starts to feel slightly sick. _Don’t let yourself go there. Especially not now. It’s small and pathetic and unhelpful._

“Thomas,” he says softly, as Thomas turns away and positions himself in front of the mirror to inspect his reflection. He looks impeccable, not a thread out of place, but spends a suspiciously long time fiddling with his tie nonetheless. “Thomas, I am sorry.”

Thomas gives no response. Keeps fiddling. The set of his shoulders betrays a tenseness Richard knows he isn’t imagining, and he steps nearer. “Thomas-”

“What have you got to be sorry for?” Thomas sighs and gives up on the tie. He is still avoiding Richard’s eyes. “You fell asleep. So did I. That’s all there is to it.”

“It shouldn’t have happened. It was stupid, careless. Careless like I haven’t been in-”

“I didn’t want you to go.” Thomas turns around at the confession, and this time he does meet Richard’s gaze. “You offered to leave, when I knew it would be best to say yes, but I wanted to keep you with me. It’s just as much my fault as it is yours.”

Richard reaches up, fixes his tie. Thomas lets him. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” he says softly, and that does coax a smile from Thomas. It gives him a rush of courage. “Can I kiss you, Thomas?”

“You should probably call me Mr. Barrow again from here on out,” Thomas says, and his smile changes, turns sad. “Can’t risk slipping up downstairs.” He glances at the door. “And now is hardly the time, Mr. Ellis.”

Richard flinches slightly at that, trying to bite back his disappointment. _There you go_ , he thinks, _you’ve gone and wrecked things, wouldn’t be the first time._ “Right,” he says, mustering a smile he doesn’t feel inside, “you’re right, best not tempt fate. I’ll slip into my room and change. I’ll see you downstairs. If anyone asks where I was, I’ll tell them the same story as what you told Albert.”

Thomas nods, and they walk to the door. Thomas opens it and pokes his head out, glancing up and down the corridor. “All clear,” he says under his breath. Once again, he can’t seem to meet Richard’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he adds miserably.

“No, don’t be. Don’t be sorry.” _This is all on me_. _Even if you won’t let me take the blame._ He attempts another smile and repeats, “I’ll see you downstairs.”

He steps outside, something inside him quietly breaking when the door clicks shut behind him. Distracted, with a heavy weight of guilt pressing down on his heart, he turns away, towards his room.

And finds his path blocked by Andy Parker.


	7. Richard (cont'd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to a canon suicide attempt, marital infidelity by an unnamed character and descriptions of fledgling gay Richard's exploits as a twink in London, because I can have that, as a treat.

What strikes Richard the most about this moment - oddly, because he has his choice of things here, doesn’t he - is how casually it all falls apart. How it is simply a matter of bad timing, in the end, and how split second decisions can make the difference between life being upended and it continuing the way it always has. He steps out of the room - mind admittedly on Thomas and not on the task of getting to his room unseen, which probably ought to have been his priority - and instead of encountering an empty hallway to be safely crossed, he sees Andy coming around the corner at full tilt. Richard stops in his tracks, feeling his blood drain from his body all in a rush. And time grinds to a halt.

Now, Richard isn’t entirely unfamiliar with the feeling of standing at the crumbling edge of an abyss. It is the nature of the beast, part and parcel of the kind of life he has been forced to lead up until this point. He worships at the altar of the two-faced god, spending some of his life above ground and some of it below, and the line between the two is paper thin; it’s often the crossing from one into the other that’s most perilous, as he’s established time and time again ever since he had his first crush aged fourteen and a half. (The first crush that was acted upon, at least, as there was also a boy named Patrick when he was twelve, one of a large Irish brood who lived a few houses down from his parents’.)

He’s had his fair share of close calls over the years. Anonymous encounters in public houses and railroad station restrooms that almost went awry. Messy kissing and groping in a supply closet at Buckingham Palace, _such a vulgar cliché really_ , with an equerry who had later left the household - or been discreetly removed - rather suddenly. A drunken shag with a married businessman while his wife and two children slept upstairs, blissfully ignorant of the fact that dear papa had brought a complete stranger home and was fucking him on their antique Italian sofa. Framed pictures on the dresser Richard was facing showed a bejeweled buxom woman and two little boys in sailor outfits, posing with a rocking horse of all things. That was within weeks of his arrival in London, and the first time he’d had an embroidered silk pillow to bite in during coitus, leaving indentations he hoped would fade by morning.

He’d spent maybe an hour in that lavish house before being sent on his way without a chance to bathe or even run a washcloth between his legs, nursing what he hoped were only the beginnings of a hangover, and he hadn’t seen the man again after that night. There had been others aplenty like him, though. London seemed full of them sometimes - men whose eye he’d caught because he was young and bright-eyed and eager for life and hadn’t yet learned to be subtle about what he yearned for. Men who were successful and lonely and who liked to take a younger man out for a drink and watch him smoke as a prelude to what inevitably ended up happening away from public scrutiny. It was a ritual he became very familiar with, and he gained experience quickly, not just in using his assets to get what he wanted but in doing it discreetly, most of the time. And he discovered early on that he was good at it - not just playing the game but changing the rules to suit him, charming people, turning suspicion off himself by presenting a persona. It came easily to him, almost unnervingly so.

But this - this is as red handed as it gets, barring being caught in flagrante delicto. Here he is, exiting Thomas’s room first thing in the morning, no jacket and no tie, not ten minutes after Thomas told the whole staff - by proxy of Albert - that His Majesty’s missing valet spent the night in York. Nothing could be more incriminating.

_Thomas, I’m sorry. I’m so terribly, terribly sorry._

Andy, meanwhile, has also come to a halt. Looks him up and down. Notices his state of undress, no doubt, and draws the inevitable conclusions. “Mr. Ellis.”

“Good morning, Andy.” He is surprised he remembers what one ought to say in a situation such as this. It comes out mechanically, though, and he forgets to put on a smile. His knees feel weak. How bizarre, really, to find oneself in a situation such as this and still observe the rules of social interaction as one has been conditioned to do, saying good morning to someone who is probably about to run straight down and scream blue murder about degenerates carrying out their nefarious practises under His Lordship’s roof.

Or he might do worse than that.

He hasn’t really gotten to know the Parker boy that well over the course of the last few days - he’d been too distracted turning on the charm for Mr. Barrow’s sake to pay the other staff members much mind beyond the superficial - but they’ve exchanged a few pleasantries. He knows Thomas likes him, and it’s clear even to the casual observer that he’s completely besotted with the feisty assistant cook. Perhaps a bit obsessively so, if his preoccupation with the swaggering plumber, Mr. Sellick, is anything to go by. But the lad seemed pleasant enough. Right in this moment, though, ‘pleasant enough’ won’t cut it; Richard knows it’ll take a special kind of soul to overlook what Andy’s just been witness to. It is wickedness in the eyes of the church, punishable by law, and judged wholly repugnant in the court of public opinion. Very few people, in Richard’s experience, are willing to consider the notion that what two consenting adults choose to do behind closed doors should be no one’s business but their own.

Perhaps if it had been Miss Baxter, or Mrs. Hughes… kind women, who might’ve been persuaded to look the other way… he might just nurture some hope that this thing be swept under the rug. He has little hope when it comes to Andy.

He opens his mouth to break the silence, hoping to rely on his quick mind to salvage at least _something_ even against his better judgment, but Andy surprises him by speaking first.

“If you’re looking for the bathroom, Mr. Ellis, I’ll be happy to show you. This way.”

Astonished, Richard follows him down the corridor. Somehow, it seems better not to point out that he’s been using the bathroom for a few days now and knows perfectly well where to find it.

The bathroom is unoccupied, and they go inside. Andy goes in after Richard, looking up and down the hallway before leaving the door ajar. Richard turns around to face him, not sure what he’s supposed to expect. For all he knows, he’s about to be bloodied up good and proper. Andy may not exactly be built like a boxer, but he is tall, and what working class lad hasn’t used his fists on someone at least once or twice? “Andy, I-”

“We heard you spent the night in York,” Andy interrupts him once more. “How are your parents?”

_Curiouser and curiouser._

“They are, er, rather well, thank you,” Richard stammers, feeling more and more confused by Andy’s demeanour and reaction. There is some unconvincing lie about his whereabouts on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason unclear even to himself, it shrivels and dies before it leaves his mouth. What he ends up saying instead is the barest of truths. “But I did not spend the night in York.”

He waits, heart slamming against his ribs something wild. He braces himself for whatever might come next, watching Andy’s face. The human face always betrays a person’s next action before the body does. If Andy is going to take a swing at him, he’ll see it in his face before his hands have even moved.

Andy looks over his shoulder, listens for a second, then gives a terse nod. “Well, you don’t take me for a fool, at least, I’ll give you that.”

_What?_

“You need to shave, Mr. Ellis.” Andy begins rummaging through the cupboards, gathering supplies, and Richard turns to the looking-glass to see that the lad is right, of course. Embarrassed, he runs his hand over his chin. He’s really not in fine form this morning.

Come to think of it, there are a few other things he should probably be doing in terms of personal hygiene before showing his face downstairs.

“I don’t mind you, Mr. Ellis,” Andy says as he places various shaving accessories on the sink, reaches into a different cupboard for a clean towel. “You’re the only one of that royal lot that treats us like we’re worth the time of day, and we’re grateful for your help regarding the footmen. We’re indebted to you for that, but if this gets out, we won’t be able to help you, or Mr. Barrow. Do you get that?”

“Yes,” Richard says softly. “Yes, I get it.”

“So you need to shave, and change, and try to get yourself looking like you got a decent night’s sleep.” Andy gives him the towel and turns away, positioning himself at the door. “You hurry on up, I’ll keep an eye out.”

Slowly, still computing what’s just happened, Richard begins to obey, his fingers clumsier than usual as they perform the routine task of shaving. “Why are you helping me?” he asks as he lathers his chin and cheeks with cream. He knew the Downton staff looked after their own, but-

“I already told you why.”

“There has to be more to it than that. It can’t just be that I helped make a phone call. You’re well within your right to call the police and have Mr. Barrow and I be put in cuffs…”

“And what does anyone stand to gain by that?” Andy is quiet for a minute, spending it looking and listening. “I like Mr. Barrow. He’s always been kind to me, even when I treated him poorly after I found out-” He glances quickly at Richard, eyes skittering away when their gazes meet in the mirror. “Anyway, he looked after me when I joined the household. Showed me the ropes of being a footman, tried to teach me how to read, helped me with a gambling situation. He’s very knowledgeable, not just about the job but about life in general.”

Richard nods. He can believe that. “And you don’t mind… what he is? What we are?”

“I used to.” The lad is honest, at least. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really into the whole fire and brimstone stream of thinking, I just kept my distance for a while because… well, I didn’t want to give him any ideas, you know? I was naive at the time, about a lot of things. I thought he could… turn me, or something like that.”

“Lots of people do. When in reality we're just trying to exist in this world as best we can."

“But turned out he just wanted to be my friend. Didn’t really sink in with me how much he needed one, a friend that is, until I saw him- er…” He stops abruptly, gaze flicking towards the bathtub. Richard’s hand stills.

“Until you saw him where?”

“Please, forget I said that. Not my place to tell.” Andy straightens up, but something in his demeanour has changed almost imperceptibly. “Keep shaving, Mr. Ellis. At some point I’m going to be missed downstairs. I’d like to be back before then.”

Richard opens the razor, angles it against his jaw. “I hope Mr. Barrow knows how good a friend he has in you. I’m glad of it.”

“There’s more.” At this, Andy grins, wide and happy. “When I wanted to court Daisy but didn’t know how to go about it, Mr. Barrow helped me with that too. Told me which dances she likes, showed me the steps. In secret, of course. A very good dancer, is Mr. Barrow.”

A slow smile spreads over Richard’s face, and it’s only now that a weight falls off his chest, helping him breathe more freely. “I would’ve liked to see that,” he murmurs, hoping he hasn’t misjudged the situation and given offense with that remark.

“And last night, the girl I love agreed to set a date for our wedding,” Andy goes on. “She’s very political, Daisy, and we want to make the world a better place. Thought I might as well start now.”

Richard could have wept for gratitude. “Thank you, Andy,” he says quietly, flicking a dollop of cream into the sink. “For as long as I live, I won’t forget this.”

“Besides,” Andy adds, and chuckles. “Can’t have Mr. Barrow thrown in jail when I’m going to ask him to be my best man, now can I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let this chapter be known as 'the redemption of Andy Parker', haha. Seriously, what was up with that storyline? But anyway, #fixedit.


	8. Thomas

As by some miracle, they both succeed in making it down for breakfast in a somewhat timely manner and looking reasonably presentable at that, even if they are both sporting dark circles under their eyes, which in Thomas’s case is noticeable enough to garner a remark from Mrs. Hughes. He fabricates some excuse on the spot, sparing a moment to wish his parents had given him a complexion more like Richard’s; that man has a tan like a farmer, belying his true occupation as a servant who spends most of his time indoors.

“I like to go for walks around the gardens whenever the weather permits,” Richard’d said when Thomas remarked on it as they lay entangled a few hours earlier. “Lunch break is often the best time for it. Do you know St. James’s? The lake?” Thomas nodded. “That’s where I like to go, and sit, sometimes reading, sometimes just taking in everything there is to see.” He kissed Thomas, looked down at him with warmth in his eyes. “I’ll be thinking of you when I’m back there, imagining you to be walking and sitting there with me.”

Truly - the things that man _says_.

As expected, there is no chance of them speaking privately before breakfast with so many people milling about. All they manage before they join the others in the servants’ hall is a look - they are masters at those because they have to be, communicating through a raised eyebrow or flick of the eyes what takes ordinary people whole sentences to express - and this morning, unlike the night before, Thomas is able to read him like a book, Richard’s small nod giving him some degree of much-needed reassurance.

_Did we get away with it? Yes, we got away with it._ A muscle near Richard’s mouth twitches, a half grimace that is there and gone. _But only by a hair._

Thomas doesn’t need to be reminded of how very close they came to calamity for the second time in less than twelve hours. The whole situation with Albert rang a little too familiar, brought back echoes of Jimmy and Alfred, and that had only been a kiss - actually not a proper kiss but a thwarted attempt at one, and being caught then had been bad enough; he still remembers keenly the open hostility and disgust he’d faced in the aftermath, the shame he’d been made to feel and most of all the harsh words Carson had spoken, a man he, in spite of everything, admired and looked up to.

He’d called him foul. _Foul_ , for a kiss. Carson had been kinder, albeit not by much, to that silly Ethel when she carried on an affair with an officer right under their noses and became pregnant with his illegitimate love child. Mrs. Hughes had even fed her from the Downton kitchens, for the sake of the child no doubt, and aided her in every possible way to get the boy recognised by the grandparents. But Thomas losing himself for a minute and stealing a kiss from a sleeping man? God forbid!

What if he had forgotten to lock the door the night before, and Albert had been a little more insistent? If a kiss was that offensive to regular folks, what sort of mayhem would being caught sleeping naked with another man have caused? His blood runs cold at the thought of these, and a multitude of other what-ifs.

But at the same time - now that the worst of the shock has worn off and paralysing fear doesn’t distort his thinking anymore - the memory of what happened this morning also fills him with anger. Regret, too. Not for making the mistake of falling asleep together, but for being denied the simple pleasure of waking up like that, without the sword of Damocles about to come down on their necks, and actually getting to _enjoy_ it - being nude yet comfortable with another person in broad daylight, having a laugh over the mess they’ve made of themselves, only to get distracted cuddling and kissing and then possibly going on to make even more of a mess…

Everyone else gets to have that. And what is worse, they probably take it for granted. That’s what sticks in Thomas’s craw - ordinary people don’t know how good they have it, getting to live their lives unapologetically, out in the open, without the hiding and the always having to look over one’s shoulder.

Still, despite these distractions chipping away at Thomas’s mind, breakfast passes relatively pleasantly. The Downton people are, without exception, in remarkably good spirits, while the remaining royal staff barely speak a word to anyone and are the first to leave the table without even excusing themselves. Barely are they out of earshot or the whole table erupts in raucous laughter.

“These people,” scoffs Daisy. As per usual, she is the first to say what everyone is thinking. “They work at _Buckingham Palace_ , if you can believe that. Even as a republican, I’d expect them to have a grasp of basic manners at least.” It isn’t until then that she seems to realise Richard is still sitting at the table, and she turns red. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Ellis. I didn’t mean you, of course. You’re all right.”

“For a royal servant,” Richard says without missing a beat, and it’s only when he chuckles that the assembly seems to release a collective breath. Thomas can’t fully stifle a smile. “I’m glad to hear it, Daisy. My time here has taught me one thing - one makes either fast friends at Downton or formidable enemies. I know I’d rather have the former.”

“Well said,” says Mrs. Hughes, and there are other murmurs of approval as well. Daisy smiles, relieved, and Richard takes the opportunity to wave her over. She comes and leans down, and slowly begins to smile at whatever it is he is saying in her ear.

It stings, like a blade between Thomas’s ribs would sting. It takes him by surprise, and he looks down at his plate, to hide that he is no longer smiling.

“Oh, thank you,” Daisy says, pleasantly surprised, “but there’s no need to whisper, Mr. Ellis. Everyone here already knows. Except maybe Mr. Barrow?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I was out of the loop,” Thomas says to his plate. To make up for his bitter tone, he looks up and smiles. “What did I miss, Daisy?”

“Andy and I are getting married. I told him last night I want to set a date.”

_Another wedding. Another celebration he’ll never get to have for himself. Another damn reminder of how this whole damn world is slanted against his lot._ It takes every grain of willpower Thomas possesses to keep smiling. _And how in hell did Richard find that out before him?_ “Well, it was about time. Took you long enough, Daisy.” And then, with an upbeat generosity he desperately wants to feel, “I’m happy for you both.”

Miss Baxter, who sits next to him, gives his knee a gentle squeeze under the table. He takes that to mean she is proud of him for swallowing his bile.

“Thank you, Thomas, you’re ever so sweet,” Daisy says. Even after all this time, he’s noticed, they still seem surprised when he says something nice when the old Thomas would have been nasty. At times, it feels like he’s still there, too, lurking in the background, waiting to come out and say something hurtful, like _at least Andy’s a step up from the corpse you married last time_. Certain days, it’s a constant struggle keeping that resentful young man well gagged. Bright-faced, Daisy goes on, “Will you dance with me at my wedding? Oh please, will you? Just like we did in the old days.”

At this, a genuine smile comes easy, and they both say at the same time, “The grizzly bear!” which makes everyone laugh and dissolves the knot in his stomach somewhat.

“Well, I think Andy and Mr. Mason take precedence,” he says, “but if your husband doesn’t mind, I’ll gladly take the bride for a spin around the floor. Be it the grizzly bear or whatever else.”

“Not my place to mind,” Andy says quickly, blushing to the tips of his ears - apparently the whole episode with the plumber knocked some overdue sense into him. “Either way, it’d be entirely appropriate for you to dance at the wedding, because… I might as well say it here… I’d like for you to be my best man, Mr. Barrow.”

_What?_

Thomas is reeling from what he’s just heard. Or _thinks_ he’s heard, which is something his mind refuses to compute. To make matters worse, the whole table seems to have fallen silent, and everyone is staring at him, which doesn’t help him get his bearings back in a hurry.

He catches Richard’s eye, and gets a smile and a little nod. Encouraging, as if to say, _go on_.

_Oh. He knew this already, too._

What he doesn’t know, _can’t_ know, is that the last time there was a downstairs wedding, Thomas barely even made usher; he had to volunteer and pin the bloody corsage on himself, or he would just have been another spectator in the pews once again. And now Andy wants to give him the top job just like that? And announce it to the whole bloody staff, too, like he’s _proud_ to be doing it?

“You,” he stammers, because that’s what they all seem to expect, isn’t it, that he says something, “er, is that… are you-”

_Are you sure you want someone like me standing at the top of the aisle with you? Talking to your family, speeching at your reception, being /visible/?_

He refrains from saying all this, of course. Andy bloody knows what he is, and is asking him all the same. That’s got to count for something.

Whether he’d have made the announcement if he knew Thomas had been unraveling on another man’s cock a few short hours earlier is a different matter altogether.

And everyone is _still_ fucking watching him, expectant, and if they keep doing that they _will_ know, they’ll see it in his face somehow, especially if he makes the mistake of looking up and finding Richard’s gaze across the table, because whatever he’s feeling inside about all they’ve done and shared together will be right there on his face, spilling out of his eyes.

“Thomas?” Daisy asks, hopeful. They all regularly call him by his Christian name, which he supposes is part and parcel of working with the same people who knew him as a footman with a chip on his shoulder twenty years ago, but he only corrects them when there are outsiders present or he’s having a bad day. And Richard doesn’t count as an outsider and in spite of the scare they had this morning, this is probably the best day he’s had in ages by a mile, for reasons that have everything to do with the man sitting across from him.

Which, incidentally, also makes it the worst of days, as said man is set to board a train to London in less than two hours, and will be taking his damn smile and wisecracks and insufferably chipper personality - and Thomas’s heart, probably - with him.

Andy gets up and approaches him, standing beside his chair. “Will you, Mr. Barrow?” he asks earnestly. “Be my best man? Keep me from making a fool of myself when I finally marry this wonderful woman?”

Only one thing he can say to that, isn’t there.

“Certainly I will, Andy,” he quietly replies, grateful, and he clasps Andy’s hand. “I couldn’t be any prouder to.”


	9. Thomas (cont'd)

Once Carson stands and everyone dashes off to various duties, Thomas and Richard go into the courtyard three minutes apart and meet behind the gardener’s toolshed, away from the house, to smoke a cigarette and talk in hushed voices about their brush with catastrophe. They stand well apart despite being unobserved, which gives Thomas the opportunity to do some observing of his own, and he is once again struck by how at ease Richard seems in any given situation, all unaffected nonchalance as he leans against the wall like this has been his stomping ground for the past two decades and not Thomas’s.

“I can’t believe that,” Thomas says slowly once Richard finishes telling him, in a fair amount of detail, what happened after they parted ways. “I can’t believe Andy helped you and kept quiet after he _saw_ you like that. I can’t believe he asked me to be his best man, in front of everybody like that, _knowing_.” He shakes his head in disbelief. This is simply not how people normally behave, in his experience. It is such a distant cry from how Alfred had reacted when-

“At first I couldn’t, either,” Richard says pensively. “But after talking to him, and thinking about it, I have a pretty strong theory. Do you want to hear it?”

Thomas doesn’t respond at once. Whatever Richard says next could be something he doesn’t particularly want to hear. Finally he shrugs, “I suppose.”

“The young man doesn’t want you to get into trouble, because he cares about you. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he cares about you a great deal. He looks up to you.”

Thomas scoffs. “Bollocks.”

Richard smiles mildly at his crudeness. “He told me he does, in his own roundabout way. You know how blokes are when it comes to that sort of thing, you have to read between the lines a little. He told me how much you taught him, and how deeply he appreciates that. After what he did at breakfast, do you find it so hard to believe how highly he thinks of you? He’s marrying his sweetheart, and he wants you there with him on that day, by his side. That’s a task a man only gives to his best friend, or a brother.”

Thomas stops fidgeting with his lighter to shoot him a look. “I _know_ that. You don’t have to tell me what it means, I know it’s a big fucking honour. Couldn’t you tell back there that I was knocked for a loop when he asked?”

“Yes,” Richard calmly replies, “I saw that. And I’ll tell you what else I saw, if I may.”

“I’m not under the illusion that you can be stopped.”

“I saw how pleased they all were. That you were asked, and accepted.”

Thomas grimaces as he lifts the cigarette to his mouth. “Stunned, more likely. _I_ was, so I wouldn’t blame them.”

“That’s not what I saw,” Richard insists. When he has a point to make, he’s like a dog with a bone. “I saw Miss Baxter just about bursting with pride, Mrs. Hughes nodding approval. Daisy was ready to get on her knees and beg if it so much as looked as though you might refuse.”

“You see a lot, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas says, and he knows he is sounding pricklier by the minute, but what does it matter when the man will be back in London in a few hours, carrying on with his life? No point in keeping the illusion up any longer.

“I can tell they care about you, whether you want to believe it or not. And that’ll be a relief for me when I leave, to know that you’re among friends willing to stick their necks out for you.”

“Stop,” Thomas bristles, snapping his lighter shut with an angry flick of the wrist. “Stop patronising me. You waltzed in here a couple of days ago and you think you know a thing or two. You weren’t here twenty years ago. You weren’t here _two_ years ago, when most of these people still treated me like dirt under their shoe and I had to live with the knowledge it was my own damn fault. You think because Daisy thinks fondly of that time I taught her a dance or two we always were the best of friends? You’d be wrong.”

“I’m sure you’ve all been through a lot together,” Richard says, unperturbed by Thomas’s outburst. It enrages him even more. “I’m sure it’s been incredibly rough, finding your place in this household, fighting your corner, and I’m sure you stepped on quite a few toes getting where you are. All I can do is tell you how I see it now, as an outsider, and to tell you that whatever happened in the past should be left there. You told me you are trying to be a better man, whatever that means for you, and I think they know that and respect you for it. You saw the result today, and I hope you will remember it whenever you feel like you’re not doing enough. Not being _good_ enough.”

Thomas smokes furiously, feeling too tangled up inside to trust himself to speak. It seems that where Richard is concerned, he is as transparent as glass, and he’s not sure he likes it. It’s all his own fault, too; he’d flapped his mouth like a besotted fool the night before and spilled all his insecurities to this man, who, it turns out, hadn’t just been nodding and feigning interest to get into his knickers but actually been paying attention.

“It doesn’t matter how hard I try,” he finally says, matter-of-factly, resigned. “I will never be like you.”

“What am I like?” Richard softly asks. Unlike Thomas, who’s been sucking on his cigarette as if it were a lifeline, he’s had his hand by his side for a while now, and his cigarette seems to have gone out. “Tell me.”

“For me it will always be an act,” Thomas says. He might as well be entirely forthcoming and bare it all. _Go for broke._ It’s his style, isn’t it? “Not for you. You are just a ray of fucking sunshine without even trying. It doesn’t matter where you are, or what kind of situation you walk into, you know exactly what to say and people fall over themselves to be on the receiving end of that patented Ellis charm. You’ve been here, what, four days? And you have them all wrapped around your little finger. They don’t even see you as one of the royal staff anymore, because you’re just that nice.”

Richard smiles, but it’s a smile with little joy behind it. “Look more closely, Thomas. The man you think you see isn’t real.”

“Oh, isn’t he? Then what is it I am seeing, pray tell?”

“A façade.”

“A pretty convincing one, if that’s the case.”

“A façade nonetheless.” Richard relights his cigarette, takes a drag, plucks a tiny flake of tobacco from his lip with his thumb and ring finger. “We talked about wearing armour, Thomas. Haven’t you considered this might be my armour of choice? Putting on a smile, chatting people up, making them like me before they can decide to dislike me? It’s a survival strategy, albeit a different one than the one you’ve chosen.”

“If you’re that good at pretending, you’ve chosen the wrong occupation,” Thomas says, stubborn. And because he’s feeling particularly resentful, he adds, “Don’t tell me your confidential little chat with Daisy this morning was part of any strategy.”

“Thomas, I was congratulating her on her engagement. Andy had told me about it in the bathroom and I didn’t know how many people knew. I was being discreet.”

“As you do so well.” Thomas wants to tell himself to stop, it’s not worth getting worked up over, but his damn mouth is ten steps ahead of him. _Damn you, what will it take for you to realise I’m not the man you want me to be?_ “You do that a lot? Flirting with the lasses for _survival_?”

He’s going to pretend he didn’t once use Daisy for the same purpose.

“Thomas, if you think that was flirting-”

“Answer the question, Mr. Ellis.” The way Richard flinches at his formality reminds him of how he had responded that morning, when he’d asked to kiss him and Thomas had refused. He wishes he could feel pleased, at having pierced that polished veneer even for just a second, but it only makes him feel miserable, just as it had that morning.

Richard takes a minute to reply. “Whatever it takes to get by,” he says eventually, the reference to their nightly conversation in the stable yard no doubt intentional.

Thomas feels calm and cold inside - calm like the eye of a storm would be calm. “You sleep with them, too?”

Richard exhales through his nose. His mouth twitches, but it’s not a smile. “No.”

“Why not? Why stop there?”

“I couldn’t pretend to that degree.”

“Must be a disappointment for you. The master pretender who can’t get it up for a housemaid.”

“Thomas…”

“One hears things, of course,” Thomas goes on, unstoppable. “There’s men who look at both. Who _have_ both, sometimes in the span of one night. Simultaneously, even. Thought that might be you.”

“Well, I’d tell you if it was, but it’s not. I’m queer, Thomas. I desire men, and men exclusively.”

“And you make sure the right men know it, no doubt.” It’s all spilling out of him now, bitter like bile. God, a little more of this and he’ll be straight on hysterical. “You travel a lot, Mr. Ellis? Stay in many great houses during these tours, visit all sorts of exotic places? Any man’d make the most of that, I know I would. As it is, I’ve been stuck in this shithole for most of my adult life, haven’t touched a man in years until last night, only got to go to America once. Did quite well there, I’ll have you know.”

“I believe it,” Richard says. He’s visibly flustered, imagine that, Thomas almost feels victorious for managing it, or would do if he was any less _upset._ “Thomas, if you’re trying to suggest that I’m promiscuous, or that I make a habit of fucking the butler in every house I visit, you’re wrong.”

_“Am I.”_

“Maybe that was me once, when I was much younger, trying to find my place in the world and seeking gratification and validation from whoever would offer. These days I’m more careful, but it’s not only that. Now that I’m older, I don’t like to… spread my affections around, anymore. I mean… yes, I have the occasional _encounter_ , because we all need that from time to time, don’t we. But spending the night in your bed wasn’t about that.” Thomas huffs, and Richard takes a step towards him, thinks the better of it, raises his hands helplessly. “Thomas, I told you things last night, _called_ you things, made no secret of how I feel about you. You think that was all a ploy to get you to sleep with me? That that’s all you were to me, an opportunity to be taken and then discarded?”

Thomas has reached the end of his cigarette. He flicks the stub in a nearby horse bucket, filled with murky water from the overnight rains they had a week ago. “The things you said,” he says slowly, avoiding Richard’s eyes. “I think you meant them at the time. You may even think you still feel that way about me now. But you won’t when you find out who I really am.”

“I wish you would give me a chance to prove you wrong,” Richard says softly, and then they both fall quiet. They have reached a stalemate.

“I do want to thank you,” Thomas finally says, flat, because this exchange has taken a lot out of him. “For your friendship these past few days, for making me feel like… a human being, I guess. I can’t tell you how much that’s meant to me.”

So he’s talking in past tense now.

Richard’s cigarette appears to have gone out again, almost half of it left. Thomas supposes it would be too much to ask if he can finish smoking it for him, although the temptation is there. “I know what you’re trying to do, Thomas,” he says, too subdued, too quiet for him.

“Do you?”

“Yes, and I won’t let you.”

Before he can think the better of it, Thomas looks around and crosses the distance in two quick strides, taking Richard by the shoulder and kissing him. Richard makes a sound of relief and tilts his head into it, pressing his mouth closer, soft and yielding. Gentle even now.

“I mean it,” he whispers when Thomas finally leans away, but their faces remain in close proximity. “I won’t let you sabotage yourself because you don’t think you deserve a good thing. To be happy. When I write, will you write back?” Thomas nods. “Take my calls?” Another nod. “Then I’ll have hope. May I hope, Thomas?”

Thomas sighs, closes his eyes. “Yes,” he murmurs, and kisses him again, then abruptly turns and walks away, back to the house, without looking behind.

It isn’t until he gets to his pantry and sits down to collect himself that he finds the silver fob, slipped discreetly into his pocket.

**END OF PART ONE**


	10. 1927 (Interlude)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (interlude, rather) is a bit of a change in format, as you will see. I'd call it a highlight reel of 'life at Downton post-royal-visit', centering around Thomas and Richard of course but written from a more omniscient POV. Also, there are letters full of that repressed sexual innuendo that we like. So it's a mixed bag but I like it, lol. Hope you will too.
> 
> Set between July-December 1927.

_I. summer._

_Dear Mr. Barrow,_

_I wanted to write to you immediately upon returning to London, but as a simple look at the calendar would tell you, I delayed. It's been three days since I stepped onto the platform at King's Cross, and I'm only now sitting down and beginning the pleasant task of penning the words you see before you. Why wait so long? Rest assured it wasn’t for want of time or enthusiasm, and my regard for you hasn't lessened in the slightest - quite to the contrary. I think I merely felt a need to settle back into my routines here first, to give my head a chance to clear, as it was so full after my time in the North. I didn’t feel I could do my impressions and thoughts justice, if I put pen to paper prematurely. Don't get me wrong - I consider myself blessed to be able to see as much of the world as I do, but this most recent tour has reminded me that my roots are, and always will be, firmly planted in Yorkshire. I don't mind admitting I miss it more keenly now than I did before._

_First and foremost, I wanted to tell you I walked around St. James’s today, and sat by the lake as you know I do habitually. As I was watching the birds, for a moment I had the strange - but not unpleasant - sensation of seeing them through different eyes than my own, and when I felt like myself again I couldn’t help but think it would be such a fine thing to be able to spend that hour in some company. It is truly a lovely place and the beautiful things in life are better shared than enjoyed alone, I think. However, that is quite enough about me! I hope this letter finds you well. I have thought of our last conversation often these past few days, as I’m sure you have. Not too bitterly, I hope. I know you will remember what I said at the very end. Consider the sentiment repeated; I mean it as much now as I did then._

_How are the good people of Downton faring? Please give my regards to whomever might care to receive them! Is there a wedding date yet for Daisy and Andy? Is Mrs. Patmore already putting together a seven-course menu worthy of The Ritz? I hope you do not find my interest irritating, or my questioning impertinent. Downton was, for me, the final stop on the tour, and it has left an impression on me that will not be easily erased. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to remain apprised of what goes on in your lives. Yours most of all, Thomas._

_I remain,  
_ _Your friend R. Ellis_

*

After the royal circus packs up and moves on, Downton once again returns to being the sleepy village it always was, and the Crawley household picks up the threads of ordinary life. Mr. Carson hangs up his livery with a wistful sigh and returns to tending his vegetable patch; Mrs. Hughes is clearly relieved to be the only reigning housekeeper once more, and everyone else, too, is glad for life to resume its normal course.

Miss Baxter notices the new fob Mr. Barrow has taken to wearing on his waistcoat, as well as the letter with unfamiliar handwriting that arrives, which he doesn’t open at the table but takes to his pantry to read, but her remarks - not questions, because she knows only too well how touchy he can be about private matters - yield no response. She doesn’t prod further, but decides to keep her eyes open around him in the foreseeable future. It’s not that she thinks he’s backsliding into a dark place, but he does seem absentminded at times. She doesn’t like it, but she also knows that he trusts her enough to seek her confidence when he feels ready.

The start of the grouse. Downton hosts its first hunting party of the season, this time with shockingly few young bachelors in attendance as there are no more daughters to be wed. All available men among the personnel are rustled up for the shoot to serve as loaders, including Thomas, who only gives up his protests when Lord Grantham requests him personally, saying they always did well together. The weather is fine, and the sound of the horn calling gets everyone’s blood pumping, and Thomas ends up enjoying it more than he would have enjoyed an afternoon spent indoors with Mr. Bates and the womenfolk.

It rains unexpectedly on the day of the annual cricket match. Mr. Carson doesn’t compete, on account of his palsy, but that doesn’t stop him from sitting as close to the bench as he can and giving unsolicited strategic advice. Thomas has a good innings and so does Mr. Talbot, but otherwise Mr. Bates, who is keeping score for the house team, has a fairly quiet afternoon.

“We went down fighting, Barrow,” Lord Grantham says as they all huddle together under the marquee afterwards and watch the soggy pitch be transformed into a muddy lake by a downpour of biblical proportions. He does have something of a beaten but proud general overlooking a battlefield, and he clinks his brandy to Thomas’s beer. “Once again, you saved us from utter humiliation, you and my son-in-law. But next year, we will return with our heads held high, and stronger than ever.”

Thomas doesn’t point out that so long as staff members keep leaving without being replaced, a victory on the pitch seems more unlikely every year. Especially if Mr. Molesley stays committed to the cause of defending the house honour instead of playing for the village team as he is fully entitled to do. Being a teacher and all.

By now, several personal letters have arrived for ‘Mr. T. Barrow, c/o Downton Abbey’, and it has been noticed that Mr. Barrow walks down to the post office more often than he used to, or has Andy do it for him when he can’t make the time himself. They are often seen having conversations in hushed tones clearly not meant to be overheard, and the general feeling downstairs is that it can’t _all_ be about wedding preparations, surely.

“One day I’ll winkle it out of you,” Miss Baxter says quietly when they are alone in the servants’ hall one evening, she mending and he reading in his rocker by the fireplace. She smiles to reassure him she’s teasing, and he catches her eye over the rim of his newspaper.

“What’s that, Miss Baxter?”

“Whatever it is you and Andy are hiding.” She pauses a moment to ensure no one is nearby to overhear. “You know you can talk to me about anything, if you want.”

“‘Want’ being the operative word.”

“Just reminding you,” she says lightly, carefully. The last thing she wants is to upset him and make him retreat into his shell. “I think it's lovely you and Andy get along again, but he won’t be here much longer, since-”

“-we’re about to lose him to the sweet bucolic life of pig farming. I don't need reminding, thank you."

“I’m only saying,” she clarifies, insisting, “if ever you need someone to walk to the post office for you, I hope you know you can trust me.”

“Yeah,” he says, and sighs. “And one day I will probably lose you too, to the adoring clutches of Mr. Molesley.”

“Don’t be daft,” she says. “I wouldn’t leave you. Or Her Ladyship.”

“Don’t be daft, yourself,” he retorts, lowering his newspaper. “If he asks, and you want him, you will bloody well accept with no concern for anyone but yourself.”

Still, her words of loyalty have touched him, and he is grateful.

It is mid September when Andy and Daisy tie the knot, and a happier groom or more radiant bride have rarely been seen. A beaming Mr. Mason hosts the reception at his farm, having mucked out and decorated the barn for the occasion, and after the cutting of the cake there is dancing that lasts well into the evening. Thomas and Daisy revive the ‘grizzly bear’ one last time, much to the hilarity of all, and then he dances with Miss Baxter, Mmes. Hughes and Bates and a number of females he’s never met nor seen in his life, feeling about half his age and pleasantly light-headed, at least until one of those girls starts angling for a kiss, pressing herself up against him in a way that is hardly ambiguous. He doesn’t take the opportunity, _because he’s not Richard-fucking-Ellis-valet-to-His-Majesty,_ and as the late summer evening dwindles to a close, all Thomas finds himself wanting is just one more chance to be led in a dance again.

*

_II. autumn._

_Dear Mr. Ellis,_

_I was glad for your latest letter, as it arrived at a time I was feeling rather low. You say you get those moments as well, but I’m still having trouble picturing you that way. Is it connected to a season for you the way it is for me? I don’t like October. I don’t know why. It is a grey and melancholy month for me, close enough to summer to make me hanker back for the past season and too early to start looking towards the holiday season. Christmas doesn’t bring back particularly happy memories for me personally, but I do remember joining the household as a junior footman, just staring in awe at the Crawleys’ Christmas tree and thinking I’d never seen anything like that in my life. Every year, I am reminded of that feeling when I see the children’s faces light up, so that can be my happy Christmas memory, I suppose._

_Anyway, I don’t know why I’m bothering you with my gloomy thoughts. You said you weren’t afraid to get to know the whole me, and while I certainly hope that’s true, I can’t help but try and censor myself in these letters, even on the telephone, because I feel I hold so much ugliness inside me that baring even a little of it would be too much for most people. And I can’t think of anyone whose good opinion I hold more dear than yours. Make of that what you will._

_I don’t want you to think you must worry about me. Miss Baxter does quite enough of that. But truthfully, I am not unhappy. I keep busy, I feel useful here, and while the future of service is less and less certain every year - not for you, I imagine, as there will always be servants needed at Buckingham Palace, one can hardly expect H.M. to iron his own linens - I could be so much worse off. I do see that, and I’m grateful. Well, not all of the time, but I work hard at that. At focusing on the positive rather than the negative. Sometimes I am successful, sometimes… less so. But I do know I am grateful for having met you. So that’s a start, I suppose._

_Yours in friendship,  
_ _Thomas Barrow_

*

Not long after the wedding, Andy and Daisy move out of the house.

“Don’t mind me,” Mrs. Patmore says as she blows into her handkerchief, as if Daisy were emigrating to another part of the world and won’t be back in every morning to continue performing her duties as an assistant cook. Daisy hugs her awkwardly but warmly. Thomas shakes Andy’s hand. “Good luck to you, Andy. And thanks, for everything.”

“I should thank _you,_ Mr. Barrow,” Andy says earnestly, “for everything you’ve taught me over the years. You’ve been an excellent mentor and I couldn’t be more grateful.”

Thomas is surprised when he, too, gets a parting hug from Daisy and a kiss on his cheek even. “I used to be so sweet on you back in the day,” she tells him, pulling back to look at him with a cheeky smile. “I know you must’ve known that. Did you think me a very silly young thing?”

“I’ve actually always liked you, Daisy,” he replies, truthfully. “And I’m sorry I didn’t always act like it. You chose the better man in the end.”

“I s’pose we’re more like brother and sister than sweethearts anyway, you and I,” she says. “Practically grew up together, after all. And siblings don’t always treat each other well, either. Right?”

He can’t help but laugh warmly, moved by her simple but infallible logic. “Right.”

With Andy gone, Albert is promoted to the post of first, and only, footman. The position of hall boy remains vacant. “For now,” Lord Grantham says, but Thomas knows enough.

In November he turns thirty-eight. At breakfast, the staff surprise him with Mrs. Patmore’s chocolate cake - his favourite - and a hearty rendition of ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’, which makes him want to crawl under the table and hide.

(He doesn’t.)

The Crawleys give him their heartfelt congratulations, and a half-day, to do with as he wishes. It is generous, so he thanks them, and after he’s served luncheon, he changes, puts on his overcoat, scarf and hat, and heads out, walking into the village and soon managing to hitch a ride to the train station. “To York,” he tells the ticket clerk, handing over the fare, “return please.”

He spends the remainder of the afternoon wandering aimlessly around the streets of the city, not sure what he came for or why he felt such an urge to see York again after what happened there in July - and he makes sure to steer well clear of the pub and the warehouse - but at the same time, he couldn’t imagine spending his half-day anywhere but here, walking around and trying to see the place through Richard’s eyes. Wondering which street he grew up on, where he played with his friends, or had his first kiss, what he saw to make him love the place so. But brick and mortar and stone don’t give him any answers - the only one who can is in London.

He treats himself to a birthday dinner of steak and kidney pie in a pub, drinking a pint of ale with it, and once he’s taken in his surroundings and established that the landlord is the friendly sort, he walks up to the bar, slides a few coins across the counter and asks if there’s a telephone he can use.

The calling card is in his wallet.

It isn’t the first time they’ve spoken on the telephone, but it is the first time Thomas has done the calling. He gives the palace servant who answers a false name, his nonchalance in asking for ‘a Mr. Richard Ellis, valet to His Majesty’ false as well.

He shouldn’t be this nervous, he thinks as he waits for Richard to come to the telephone, but he is. They usually do this at the end of the day, with Thomas shut away in his pantry where he has at least a semblance of privacy. Still, so long as he keeps his voice down, he reckons he should be all right.

“Hello?” It’s Richard. Formal, because the name Timothy Bryce won’t have rung any bells. “This is Richard Ellis speaking.”

Only one servant at the Palace with an accent thick enough to put jelly in Thomas's knees _every bloody time._

“Just the man I needed,” Thomas says, grinning at the wall. Hearing Richard in his ear being all business is making his heart thump, and he hopes Richard has recognised his voice. “Can you talk?”

“Yeah, yeah, I-” Rustling. When Richard speaks again, he sounds somehow closer. Much warmer, too. “God, Thomas, colour me surprised that you’re calling. That’s not the usual way of things, is it?”

“First time,” Thomas confesses, breathless. Glances over his shoulder. “Good surprise, I hope.”

“Very good surprise. Although I may retract that statement depending on what you’re calling about - not bad news, I hope?”

“No, no.” Thomas shakes his head and immediately feels silly for it. “Only… You’ll never guess where I’m calling from.”

“Depends on how many guesses I get,” Richard says, quick as ever.

Thomas thinks about it. “One.”

“Just the one? Stingy, Mr. Barrow.” A chuckle. “All right, then, it’s probably not Downton Abbey, as that would defeat the purpose of the game."

“Correct.”

“And it’s probably not the post office, as I expect it will be closed at this hour.”

“Right.”

“All right, then I’m going to go with London. Let's see… You’ve just checked into some seedy hotel and you’re calling to let me know you’re taking me out to dinner. Planning to have your way with me afterwards.”

_The things that man /says./_

“Er, no,” Thomas says, sheepish. Blushing, too. “I wish, though.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Wasn’t sure you still felt that way, you know. You can be very opaque, Mr. Barrow.” He is teasing, and it’s infuriating.

“With good reason,” Thomas flings back, spiky. He doesn’t want to be this way, but Richard just brings it out of him sometimes, being so… “Anyway, it's York. I’m in York.”

A beat of silence. Coming from Richard, that means he’s truly surprised him, and Thomas is pleased. “York,” he repeats. “ _My_ York? Not New York, Yorktown or York, Lancashire?”

“Your York,” Thomas confirms. “Only York that counts in your world, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’ll be-” Sadly, he doesn’t finish that sentence. “What’s the occasion?”

“The family gave me half the day. Decided to come here and get to know the place proper. Find out what’s to love about it.”

A longer silence this time, so long in fact that Thomas thinks for a moment the line’s been disconnected. “Er… hello?”

“I’m still here.” There’s a smile in Richard’s voice. “Sorry. You just knocked me breathless there for a minute.”

Happiness rushes to Thomas’s head, and he has to put a hand out against the wall to steady himself. He’s so damn pleased with himself that it puffs out his chest. _Mr. Richard Ellis, knocked breathless._ “Did I?”

“Oh yeah.” Richard clears his throat, chuckles. “And not for the first time since I've known you, either.”

_I knocked him breathless more than once breathless that’s what he said I knocked him breathless_

“I wish you were here right now,” Thomas says suddenly, and just like that he’s almost crying. He finds a piece of wallpaper to pick at to distract himself.

This time Richard’s response is immediate. “God, I do too.” And then, a little softer, “You are all I think about, Thomas Barrow.”

What does one say after that?

“I didn’t find it,” Thomas eventually stammers. “The reason to love York, I didn’t find it. I wanted to find it but I didn’t know where to look. Where to _start_."

“You just need a guide to show you. That offer still stands, by the way, and will indefinitely. Why did they give you a half-day, by the way?”

“What?” Thomas asks, thrown a bit by the sudden change in topic.

“The Crawleys, why did they give you half the day?”

_… Oh._

“Actually…” Thomas starts to grin, feeling quite foolish. “Upon reflection, I probably ought to have led with that.”

* 

_III. winter._

Those upstairs begin to worry about the Dowager’s failing health. They probably have been for a while, but it’s only now that Thomas begins catching tail ends of conversations that get increasingly anxious in tone.

Mr. Bates is taken ill with influenza and stays in bed at the cottage, looked after by a doting Anna. Thomas has to step in and look after His Lordship.

“I’m terribly sorry about this, Barrow,” Lord Grantham says as Thomas brushes down his dinner jacket. “Very good of you to take over from Bates, poor fellow. I do hope he’s feeling better.”

“He’s well cared for, milord.”

“I daresay he is. Everyone should be so lucky.” Robert chuckles, then grows pensive as Thomas stands in front and fixes his tie. “Say, Barrow, you have an iron constitution, haven’t you? I can’t remember the last time you were taken poorly, except-” He cuts off abruptly when Thomas freezes for a moment. “I apologise, Barrow. That was tactless.”

“That’s all right, Your Lordship.” Thomas turns away to get the Earl’s cufflinks, taking a bit longer than strictly necessary. His hands shake and he doesn’t want to turn around before they’ve stopped. “It’s in the past.”

“I hope so, Barrow. Terrible business, that was.” Lord Grantham clears his throat. Like most men, aristocrats in particular, he’s not well at ease when talking about complicated things like feelings, especially to a servant. “I never… asked you about it. It didn’t seem pertinent.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Your Lordship. I was very well cared for.” _Not unlike Mr. Bates._ The thought gives him pause.

“Still, I ought to have expressed my regret to you directly. I certainly feel I carried part of the blame. And keeping silent on the matter wasn’t right, it was cowardice on my part.”

“It’s over and done with, milord.” Thomas finally trusts himself enough to turn around, holding the cufflinks, but hesitates to approach. Something tells him the ordeal isn’t over quite yet.

“Are you… doing better?”

“I am, milord.”

“Are you? Truly?”

Thomas breathes in deeply, then out, hoping to be more convincing this time. “Yes, milord, truly. I am..." - _lo_ _nely and longing for love, but I won't bother you with that_ \- "... quite content, all things considered."

Not an untruthful word there.

“Good. Good.” Grantham gives a single, firm nod, clearly relieved to have gotten an answer that enables him to put the matter back to rest. “I am glad, Barrow. Now let us turn our minds to happier things. Christmas is almost upon us, after all.”

Christmas starts subdued, however. The Dowager isn’t well enough to join the family at the big house, so they go over and visit her at the Dower House, returning with worried expressions. Spirits lift when Lord and Lady Hexham arrive with Miss Marigold, Lady Hexham well and truly pregnant and radiant. “Milady, you look well,” Thomas permits himself to say, and she clasps his arm briefly. “Thank you, Barrow.”

Due to the Dowager’s ailing health, the servants’ ball is cancelled, a decision all the staff can understand. The traditional gift ceremony does go ahead as planned, and from the hands of Her Ladyship Thomas receives a beautiful silver cigarette case and a scarf, and from the children several drawings and a handkerchief with his initials, embroidered by Miss Sybbie herself. When he gets down in front of her and thanks her for the lovely gift, she beams.

By the time Thomas turns off the lights that night, it is too late to call Richard.

Two days later, however, there is a letter.

_Dear Thomas,_

_I hope this letter reaches you before Christmas, or at least not too long after. Experience has taught me that I probably won’t have time to wish you a Merry Christmas over the telephone, however much I would like to - hence this letter. With some luck, though, I’ll be able to call you New Year’s Eve, and wish you a blessed start of the new year. I am so very much looking forward to hearing your voice again. Bold words, I know. Somehow it is not enough for me to speak them, to let them burst out of me when we are on the telephone, or even when I’m alone, talking to the walls or the trees like the bloody fool I am. Now that I sit here looking at them written out like this, I feel relieved for having entrusted my truth to a piece of paper that will soon be on its way north and resting in your hands in a few days’ time. Call it a moment of weakness; we are all given to those occasionally, and we have already established that I am not the best at taking my own advice. I ask no one’s forgiveness but yours._

_In one of your letters, a few months ago, you spoke of gratitude. Well, as the year draws to a close, I think we should all spare a moment for contemplation, to give thanks for the things we appreciate, or perhaps don’t appreciate enough. So that is what I have been doing, giving thanks for everything that is good in my life, for everything good that happened this year. It has led me to the conclusion that I have much to be grateful for, and I hope you will end the year feeling likewise. I know of no one who deserves it more than you._

_Dearest Thomas, allow me to wish you a joyous Christmas day and holiday season. I will picture you opening your gifts - will you let me know what they are? -, dancing at the servants’ ball, drinking warm cider, enjoying the children and laughing, as that is how I like to imagine you best. (Not all of my imaginings are fit for a letter.) And even if we end up not speaking until New Year’s, know that I am thinking of you fondly in the meantime._

_Ever your (foolish) friend,  
_ _R. Ellis_


	11. Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: there be phone sex in this chapter :)

**PART TWO**

It’s Daisy - _née-Robinson-formerly-Mason-now-Parker_ \- who has the keenest ears out of all of them. 

“Thomas, isn’t that the telephone?” 

Everyone falls silent and yes, they all hear it now, the distant yet shrill peal of the telephone ringing down the corridor, and as Thomas slams his drink down on the table and sprints out of the servants’ hall, he catches Mr. Molesley saying to no one in particular, “But who could that be, at this hour? Everyone we know is here.” 

“Everyone, Mr. Molesley?” Mrs. Patmore pipes up. “My, I hope you know more people than this lot.” 

Thomas doesn’t hear what Mr. Molesley says in response to that, although he probably takes the gibe too seriously, as he usually does. He’s literally running, grateful for the fact that he’s not wearing his butler’s tails (even if taking off the jacket for the toast had garnered a look of disapproval from Mr. Carson), and sends up a prayer as the ringing continues, blaring and insistent. 

_please don’t hang up please don’t hang up please don’t hang up_

Upon reaching the pantry, he puts his hand out against the doorjamb to break his momentum and feels the soles of his shoes slipping on the floor as he stumbles into the room, launching himself at the device facetiously known downstairs as the Shrieking Banshee, courtesy of Mrs. Patmore. 

“Downton Abbey,” he wheezes, picking up mid-ring. His heart pounds like it will burst. “Mr. Barrow, the butler sp-” 

“Happy New Year, Mr. Barrow.” Richard’s voice is warm and fond and relaxed, a stark contrast to Thomas’s undignified panting breaths. “My, are you all right?” 

“‘m Fine,” Thomas exhales, pushing a stray lock of hair back into place. “Wasn’t sure how long it’d been ringing, didn’t want you to hang up.” 

“I wouldn’t’ve. Where were you at?” 

“Down in the servants’ hall. Everyone’s there, drinking port and getting tiddlier by the minute. You happened to call in the middle of a very stirring rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’.” 

“Sorry to take you away from that.” 

“Oh, don’t be. They’ve already moved on. It’s ‘The Parting Glass’ now.” When Thomas stretches out fully, he can _just_ close the door with the tip of his foot, shutting out the sound of singing. Softly and sincerely, he says into the receiver, “Happy New Year, Richard.” 

“Happy New Year, Thomas.” 

They are both silent then, but it’s a lovely kind of silence, not awkward. Thomas can hear Richard breathing calmly and wishes he could kiss him, the way Mrs. Hughes kisses Mr. Carson or Andy kisses Daisy at the clock striking twelve - sweet, brief, a peck on the lips to say _let’s make it another good year, you and me._

Thoughts like these scare him sometimes. But he has them all the same. 

“How’s London at New Year’s?” he asks, conversational. “I’ve never been.” 

“As you’d expect,” Richard says. Sometimes Thomas can’t work out if he likes being intentionally vague or if he avoids having to talk about London. “People get to acting a bit potty.” 

“God forbid.” Thomas grins. “Not you, of course.” 

“Not me. I’ll be up to bed after I get off the phone with you.” 

“Not for a while, then,” Thomas says, feeling gutsy, and he smirks at the lull that follows. He enjoys surprising Richard. Enjoys it tremendously. 

“Planning to keep me up for a while yet, are you?” 

“I might be.” 

“Well, then, I’d best get settled in. Make myself comfortable.” From the sound of it, he seems to be doing just that. “What do you want to talk about?” 

“Got your latest letter.” Thomas also pulls up a chair, turning it so his back is to the door. He keeps one ear trained for sounds from outside, but it’s habit more than anything. They’re all too happy and festive out there to pay any mind to what he’s doing. “Thought we might discuss that for a bit.” 

“I wrote it while the spirit of the season was in me. Are you about to chastise me for my candour?” 

“I bloody well should.” _What in God’s name were you thinking putting those things on paper, being that revealing, thousands of letters get lost in the mail every year and yours could’ve condemned the both of us-_ “But I liked it.” 

“Did you, Mr. Barrow?” _Smug bastard._

“‘s Hard not to be chuffed when a man compliments me like that,” Thomas mutters. 

“I seem to be making a bit of a habit out of that, actually. Hoping some of my words will stick.” 

“Yeah, it’s… it’s terribly flattering. Hard to believe, though, that someone would think about me that way. I can’t take it in.” 

“Thomas, if I’m the first man to tell you you’re beautiful, then-” 

“No,” Thomas says quickly, and a slew of men come to mind, starting with some Earl’s younger son, perfect dandy who’d been so smitten with him that he hadn’t even seemed to notice how wet behind the ears he was, gagging around his perfectly average aristocratic cock before it was even fully hard. "Plenty have said, don't think you're the first to make me blush-" 

"I make you blush?" 

_All the fucking time, and you know it too._ "I just… have very little experience with being _wooed_ like this. Being told I deserve good things. Happiness. Being asked what my Christmas presents were, because you're a fucking perfect human being who _cares_." 

"Thomas, I already told you I’m far from perfect,” Richard says softly. “But you’re right about the other thing, I care about you and your happiness a great deal.” It is rare for Richard to speak like this - without a smile in his voice, completely sincere, without even a trace of flirting or teasing. Thomas almost wishes he hadn’t said anything. 

Time for a change of subject. 

“There was something else in your letter…” he begins, cautious. Not entirely sure of himself in where he's trying to go, not sure Richard will follow his lead. 

“Go on,” Richard says, “tell me,” and it’s encouragement enough. 

“You mentioned certain… imaginings, I think was the word, not fit for a letter.” He tries to be nonchalant about it, like he hasn’t kept the missive by his bed since it arrived and read the words over and over until he could have dreamt them in his sleep. 

“I may have done,” Richard says, faux-casual, because apparently he can make the switch just that easily, and Thomas is about to lose his nerve when Richard adds, “Intrigued, were you?” 

“Quite,” Thomas admits. He picks at a tiny piece of lint on his trousers. “So, er… would you care to elaborate on that at all?” 

“I would,” Richard says immediately. Then, a beat. “You are alone?” 

"Yeah." _As alone as it gets in this house._

"We need a word," Richard states, "a word we can use when either of us is interrupted, to let the other know strange ears are listening. Or when you want to stop for some other reason. Any reason." 

Thomas can't help but get the impression Richard has prior experience with this sort of thing. He feels some type of way about that, but refrains from following that track of thought any further. He smiles wryly. "Any suggestions?" 

“How about _crikey_?” 

“I never say that.” 

“That’s rather the point. Can’t be ‘fuck’ or ‘damn' or even 'bloody hell’ because we wouldn’t get anywhere, with your mouth.” 

_Infuriating._

Thomas glances over his shoulder and listens. It appears they’ve stopped singing in the servants’ hall and turned on the wireless. There may even be dancing. “Go on, then,” he prompts softly. His heart is already in his throat, Christ, this is not a good sign for things to come. 

“Well, Mr. Barrow, there is this one thing in particular that’s been rolling around in my mind ever since July and it’s to do with something you told me while we were in bed.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I had my fingers inside you, if you’ll remember, and you said something along the lines of... _it’s been a while since anyone but myself touched me like this._ And, er, while it may not have been the time or place to pursue that titillating notion any further, I must admit my mind has been returning to it quite a bit. Wouldn’t mind knowing a little more about what you seemed to suggest there.” 

“Yeah,” Thomas rasps, “yeah, that’s- Sometimes a bloke just… fuck.” 

This is much harder than he’d thought. He’s in his pantry, and very _aware_ of being in his pantry, talking into the telephone about what he does to himself when he’s at his neediest and most desperate. And the one he most wants to do something about it is nothing but a disembodied voice in his ear, close and yet distant. He puts a finger behind his tie to wiggle it loose, unpins his collar for a little more breathing space. 

Still, knowing that it’s Richard on the other end keeps him from throwing in the towel then and there. And Richard isn’t so easily discouraged, quite to the contrary. “So… you like using your fingers on yourself.” 

“Yeah.” _For fuck’s sake, say something else._ “Sometimes.” 

“Slicking them up first, going in with one, starting to tease yourself open.” Richard’s voice is soft and low, entrancing almost if not for the things he’s saying. Thomas bites his lip, feeling a twitch between his legs. “Moving in and out slowly, or maybe a little faster if you’re feeling particularly impatient. Are you often impatient, Thomas?” 

Thomas nods his head. “Yeah.” 

“Thought you might be. You were pretty impatient last July, as I recall. Made me feel incredible, the way you fucked yourself on my fingers so eagerly, and then on my prick. I still think about it when I get to feeling that way, and I have my hand around myself, as tight as I can bear it. I imagine it’s you, riding me like you did then, clenching around me when you were right on that edge and tried so hard to hold yourself back from it, even though you were so ready to come. I never last long when I use that memory.” 

Thomas whines and presses the heel of his thumb down on his crotch. He’s getting hard just listening to Richard talk to him in this way, Jesus, does he really want to do this? “I think about you, too,” he confesses, breathy. “All the bloody time.” 

Richard hums like he’s pleased. “Will you touch yourself later tonight?”

Thomas presses his hand down again, harder, making himself gasp this time. “... Probably.”

“Think about me when you do. Imagine it’s me, easing my fingers into you, spreading you open. You liked when I did that, didn’t you?” 

“Fuck,” Thomas mutters, and, “loved that. Except- it’s not as good when it’s me doing it.” 

“It never is.” 

“No… no, I mean, I can’t quite reach that way. I can’t quite… get the stimulation at that angle. And it's what I need to get myself off." 

There is a significant pause. "You're saying-" 

"I can usually get off on two or three fingers. _Only_ on two or three fingers. But not by myself.” 

“Oh.” And then, “ _Oh_.” 

“Yeah.” Thomas gives in a bit, tracing the shape of his cock through his trousers, rubbing the head with the pads of his fingers. He resists the urge to seek skin-on-skin contact, because it would be bad enough if someone were to walk in as it is, he doesn’t need to be caught with his prick out. “For future reference,” he adds, smiling a bit, and Richard laughs softly, immediately getting what Thomas is referring to. 

He says, “Was wondering if that had made any impression at all.” 

“Well, it did. Been thinking about it a lot, I’ll have you know.” 

“Good. I was encouraged that the idea didn’t seem to put you off at the time. It does some men." 

“I’m not terribly experienced at it,” Thomas admits, hesitant, because he doesn’t know if being this truthful will be a mood killer. “But, er, yeah. I would like to try that with you.” 

“I would like to try a great many things with you.” 

“There you go being vague again.” 

“I could be far more specific if you’d like, but not sure if I should." He coughs, sounding a tad embarrassed. "I'll only get myself into more of a… predicament." 

Thomas feels gratified knowing it's not just him who is affected. “Pity, I was getting into it.” 

“Are you hard, Thomas?” Richard’s voice drops at least half an octave, and it’s fucking _sinful._ “Touching yourself, this very minute?” 

“Yeah.” Thomas swallows, rolling his hips up slightly to rub against his own hand, groping himself a little through his trousers. Squeezing. 

“Both?” 

“Yeah,” he says, and on the other end Richard _moans._

“Aren’t we a clever pair, getting ourselves all hot and bothered when we can’t fucking do anything about it.” 

“Don’t mind it,” Thomas says. “Gave me a lot to think about, you did.” 

“In that case...” Richard clears his throat. “I’d like to add one more thing to the list, if you don’t mind. Something for you to contemplate.” 

“Okay.” 

Richard takes an audible breath. “I have been saving up my half-days. Next month I should have enough to be able to take a trip up north, stay two nights. How’s that sound?” 

“Pretty damn good,” Thomas says, heartfelt, eliciting laughter from London. “I’ve… I’ve also been saving mine, by the way.” 

“Thomas, I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to hear that.” He fucking sounds it, too. “I take it, then, that you’re not opposed to, er… using that time to get better acquainted?” 

“Not one bit,” Thomas says, hoping he’s not too undignified in his eagerness. “But where do you propose-” 

“I was getting to that. You remember, I told you about my grandparents’ farmhouse up near Harrogate, spent a couple of summers there as a boy. Lovely country.” 

“You said, yeah.” 

“Well, it - the house, that is - stayed in the family after the old folks passed away. It went to their only son, my uncle, about fifteen years ago, and I’m sorry to say he hasn’t done much in terms of upkeep since then. He too passed away about a year ago and he had no children of his own so now my Mum is the lucky heiress, but it’s a millstone around my parents’ necks more than anything. I mean, they’re always saying they’d ideally like to move there and leave me the York house in due course, but the place needs some serious tender loving care before then and it’s an expense they can’t afford. So they may end up having to sell, which’d be a shame because there’s so much history tied up in that house.” He pauses to take a breath, barely giving Thomas the time to digest this barrage of information. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking my Mum probably wouldn’t mind if I went up there for a couple days, did a bit of dusting and weeding. Only a bit, mind.” He chuckles and falls silent for a minute to allow Thomas to catch up. “So, er… how’s that sound for a getaway?” 

“Er…” _How about ‘too fucking good to be true’, for a start?_ “Is it safe?” 

“Just about as safe as it gets, I’d say. As I mentioned, the house is in some disrepair, but it’s habitable. It’s on a small plot of private land, some trees and hedges, fairly secluded. Neighbours generally mind their own business. I reckon we’d get away with a day or two without putting any noses out of joint. And it’s far enough from York that my parents won’t be dropping by for tea, if that’s something you might be worried about.” 

_A day or two._ Thomas has taken his hand off his crotch a while ago, his erection flagging.

 _A day or two. With Richard, only Richard, in his grandparents’ farmhouse near Harrogate._

They are actually doing this. They are actually talking about arranging a fucking rendezvous in the middle of nowhere for all he knows with nothing to do but have sex and _talk_ for two days and he won’t have letters to hide behind and it's terrifying and he's almost completely flaccid by now getting softer and smaller by the second and this is _not_ a good sign and how is Richard so fucking _calm_ and collected about this like it's no big thing and how is Thomas going to _cope_ \- 

"Or we could get a room at a hotel somewhere, if you'd prefer complete anonymity." 

Richard, being helpful. Probably sensing that Thomas is starting to go into a spiral and hoping to pull him back from the ledge with a compromise.

"You don't have to decide just yet," he adds, and Thomas can tell he's doing his best not to sound disappointed and he _can't fucking handle_ knowing he's disappointed him _. Fuck._ "In fact, don't give me an answer right now. Mull it over for a couple of days and let me know what you decide. I want you to feel good about whatever it is. Just promise me that you will think about it. All right?" 

"All right," Thomas finally chokes out, and he reminds himself to breathe, in and out and in and out. "I will think about it, I promise." 

They are in the process of wrapping up the conversation when there is a soft knock on the door a few minutes later and Miss Baxter pokes her head in. "Mr. Barrow, Daisy and Andy are getting ready to leave. Do you want to say goodbye?" 

He wishes Richard a good night and hangs up, waving her inside. She enters soundlessly and stands before him with a gentle smile, hands clasped in front of her. 

"Close the door, please, Miss Baxter," he tells her, and sighs. "I think I'm going to need your advice on a... delicate matter."


	12. Richard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings for this chapter: references to/descriptions of drinking, oral sex/deepthroating, a character being propositioned.

Soho has something to offer everyone, if you know where to go and when to go there - and, no less importantly, have some money in your pocket to pay for your pleasure, because nothing in London's notorious nightlife district comes for free. One has to be cautious, of course, resourceful and quick to adapt, as places keep disappearing and new ones popping up in different locations all the time, but the reward is a few hours in like-minded company, a short reprieve from one's troubles, perhaps a dalliance or brief affair if one is lucky.

Richard has lived in London for quite a long time, and has experienced - sometimes to his detriment - most everything Soho provides for a man like him, especially when he was younger and more reckless and thought male eyes roving over him gave him validation and happiness. Purpose, too. The lure is less strong now, easier to resist at any rate, but it still flares back up occasionally, which is how he finds himself one day sitting at the bar of an establishment the average law-abiding Londoner wouldn’t even suspect the existence of. Basement more than public house, these places are without exception poorly lit and claustrophobic, air stuffy from cigarette smoke and lack of circulation. It’s going on four in the afternoon and he’s been putting away shots of what has to pass for whisky around here for the better part of a half hour.

And feeling sorry for himself, that too. But that’s been the state of things for well over a week now, so what made him choose today of all days to invent some errand to run and come out here in broad daylight to spend hard-earned wages on bad alcohol - an excess he’ll inevitably have to end up paying for in the currency of a head-splitting hangover - he couldn’t quite explain himself.

The thing is, he has connections now he didn't have ten years ago, connections that he could probably use to get into a place a step up from this. And perhaps one day he may just call in those favours. But today he had one simple need - to go and wallow in self-loathing and misery, and this felt like the right place to do it.

“Another,” he tells the barkeep, who has the bottle within reach and fills him back up without a word. He’s not the talkative sort, this chap, but then they rarely are, in Richard’s experience. And they don’t need to be, so long as they keep the liquid comfort coming.

At least he’ll have the cover of darkness when it’s time to return to the Palace. One of the upsides of London in January, or perhaps the only one. But darkness, unfortunately, won’t conceal the smell of cigarettes and depravity that’ll no doubt be wafting off of him when he steps out of here, provided he can still stand on his legs when the time comes. Oh, won’t his superiors have a field day catching him coming home in such a state if he doesn’t manage to magically sober up by then.

Thomas Barrow, as it turns out, isn’t the only one given to self-sabotage against one’s better judgment.

“You won’t find an answer for your troubles at the bottom of that glass, you know.” A man has sidled up to the bar, smiling as he meets Richard’s eye. "Or you would have found it by now."

“No,” Richard says sullenly, tipping the glass between his fingers, “I will not, but it dulls the pain so I'll take it.”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” the man tells the barkeep, and he pulls back the stool next to Richard’s to sit down. He’s what regular folks might pointedly refer to as a 'delicate-looking fellow’ - pale complexion, uncalloused hands, slender build and elegant movements. He could be a dancer, and perhaps he is. One never knows what one encounters in places like this, and rarely are those questions asked, that information exchanged. Coming here is not about making friends. “What pain is that, handsome?”

If they are going to introduce themselves, now would be the time. No last names, of course, and sometimes false first ones. But Richard finds he doesn’t have it in him to pretend, let alone take pleasure in the pretending, not today. And his companion won’t know the difference, anyway. “Dick.”

“A good, strong name for you. But ‘handsome’ suits you as well.” The man touches his glass to Richard’s. “I’m Rudy. Been watching you for a while, if I may be so frank. Couldn’t help myself, you’re one to catch the eye. You’ve been sitting here all this time and haven’t interacted with anyone except the barkeep. And you can do a lot better than him, love - no offense, Fitz.”

“Not here to be social,” Richard mutters, “and not a whole lot of people to interact with, anyway.” _And what few there are seem... otherwise engaged._

“We’re all here to be social,” Rudy says unironically. “But you’re right, it’s slim pickings at this hour. Why don’t you come back tonight? The place’ll be much livelier. Well, perhaps ‘livelier’ is not the word. But there’ll be more of a crowd.”

“Have somewhere to be tonight.”

“Ah.” Rudy nods, keen blue eyes searching Richard’s face attentively. “Wife?”

“No.” Richard reaches into his jacket for his cigarette case, offers Rudy one before helping himself, putting it between his lips. They light up. “Work.”

“And you’re not supposed to be there now?”

Richard grimaces around his cigarette. “Technically.”

“Must be bad then, whatever brought you here to drown your sorrows in this rotgut.” Rudy’s elbow brushes Richard’s as he reaches for the ashtray, and it’s probably not by accident. Richard doesn’t flinch. “Are you having boy trouble, sweetheart? You wouldn’t be the first to come through here nursing a broken heart.”

“Boy trouble…” Richard exhales sharply, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

“The best and the worst kind. Do you want to talk about it, or do you want help taking your mind off it?” As if to demonstrate his ability to do exactly that, Rudy lightly puts his fingers on the back of Richard’s hand, his cigarette hand resting on the bar, and slowly moves them up to his wrist. “What has the boy done to put such a sad frown on such a bonny face?”

It irks Richard to be addressed in this way - like he’s still a wet behind the ears, fresh out of Yorkshire lad who’d have blushed at the compliment instead of the thirty-six-year-old man of the world he could realistically claim to be, but God damn it he just needs to _talk._ He’s been keeping it all bottled up for over a week and it’s slowly eating him alive. So if this bloke is willing to listen to his woes, be a sympathetic ear, he’s damn well going to take him up on the offer.

“Wasn’t him but me,” he says flatly, lifting the glass to his mouth for a hearty swig. “I got ahead of myself, as I usually do. Moved too fast. Gave him cold feet, I think. Haven’t heard anything in over a week.”

“Love, what is a week? I’d give it at least another two before I’d even start to worry.” Rudy laughs. “I’ve had blokes go cold on me for months at a time before they came crawling back.”

Richard manages a semblance of a smile, a polite one more than anything. It isn’t very encouraging to think of Thomas getting back to him in terms of ‘months’, but he has no one but himself to blame for this whole sorry fucking situation. He’d been foolish, to inundate Thomas with all that family history about the farmhouse, making it so incredibly _personal_ right off the bat when a more pragmatic approach would have been far more effective. The house was an ideal solution for a complicated problem, even Thomas had to see that, when given the chance to think about it objectively. But Richard hadn’t given him the chance; he’d forgotten himself and just _rambled_ , encouraged by how receptive Thomas had been on the telephone New Year’s Eve, how he’d ever so tentatively initiated their game before Richard picked up the ball and ran with it. 

Yes, he’d told Thomas to think about his proposal, and to take his time for the thinking, not in the least because he couldn’t bear the thought of having his hopes shot down right then and there. But if there was any chance of Thomas agreeing to the proposition, he would have already done so by now. Three days would have been an acceptable time to consider, decide and come back with a yes. A _week_ is the kind of time one needs to decide how to let someone down gently.

Richard Ellis has some experience with rejection, knows what it sounds like coming down the pipe. He’s put his neck out, and now he’s just waiting for the axe to come in swinging.

Meanwhile, Rudy’s fingers have changed position, rubbing gently at Richard’s inner elbow, then sliding upwards to rest on his bicep for a moment. He probably ought to say something in response to that, come to think of it. Instead he closes his eyes and forgets to smoke his cigarette as Rudy’s hand continues its journey upwards, brushing his neck before finally settling in his hair. God but he’s weak for that, he’d been all but purring in contentment when Thomas first ran his fingers through his hair, which incidentally was also the first time they kissed. Richard still remembers it now, the way his body jolted into action when Thomas closed that door and locked it - _locked it, for God’s sake_ \- and the next moment they were kissing and clinging to each other, desperate, and Richard remembers feeling such a release of bottled-up yearning from that first contact alone.

“Must be someone special, this boy, to have a man like you pining like this,” Rudy says, low. “Is he handsome?” Richard nods. “Good kisser?” Another nod, because Richard doesn’t trust himself to speak - he might just cry instead. “Good with his mouth in general?”

_“Please,” Thomas’d said, breathy and wide-eyed, as they stumbled towards the bed, Thomas’s narrow bed, before they’d even had a chance to join it with the spare, and he pulled at Richard’s shirt, pulled it out of his trousers, got his hands underneath, “please, will you let me... can I-” and Richard, smitten, so so so smitten already even then, couldn’t say anything but “whatever you desire, Thomas… whatever you want is yours” and Thomas gave what sounded like almost a moan of relief and said, half embarrassed half cocky, “you’ll not be sorry, Mr. Ellis” and the next moment Richard found himself pushed down on the bed not entirely quietly and his trousers being unfastened and slipped down his hips along with his underwear and Thomas was on him in a second with his tongue and lips and then his whole mouth and it was wet and warm and so damn /greedy/, fuck, Richard couldn’t remember ever having been taken into a man’s mouth so eagerly and Thomas’s fingers held his hips down for a minute and then slipped under his bare arse as if to invite movement and move Richard /did/, rolling up his hips and pushing himself in and in again as though completely entranced while Thomas groaned like this was everything he existed for and kneaded his arse and closed his lips around the base of him and Richard felt him flatten his tongue and open his throat even more for him and then /swallow/ and that was what did it, really, that was what made him pull a pillow to his face at the very last moment and howl into it with Thomas Barrow’s head sunk deeply between his legs and every inch of him held inside, welcome and very much wanted, at least for a moment because then Thomas made a sound like choking and pulled off coughing and apologised sheepishly saying “it’s been a while” even as his eyes teared and instead of it being awkward it’d made them both laugh unselfconsciously and once Thomas caught his breath Richard had kissed him without qualms, gently licking his bottom lip and then into his mouth, which Thomas seemed to like very much._

It was the first and probably the only time in Richard’s life that he’d been with a man whose most pressing physical need was to swallow down his cock and take his everything like his mouth was made for it. The first time, too, that Richard had gone from kissing a man to being bollocks-deep in said man’s throat in less than two minutes. But that is none of some-bloke-perhaps-named-Rudy's concern.

In fact, none of it is. So why is he sitting here, again, letting some stranger stroke his hair like it will provide some magical cure for his heartache? Especially when his mind is already racing ahead of him and coming back with a clear-cut picture of how Thomas would look at him if he knew, how he would smirk, hollow-eyed and joyless, like nothing about this surprised him at all. Because it’s what he’s waiting for, isn’t it - for Richard to get distracted by the next handsome face to walk by and prove him right, like others have done before him. Prove that for all Richard’s promises and grand words, Thomas isn’t interesting enough, not likeable enough. Not _good_ enough.

“I… I need to go,” he says, opening his eyes. He crushes out his half-smoked cigarette, downs what remains of his drink and pulls a number of bills from his wallet. “It’s on me,” he tells Fitz the barkeep, slapping the money on the counter, “this man’s drink, it’s on me. Keep the change.”

“Don’t go yet, handsome,” Rudy murmurs, his fingers playing at the nape of his neck. “It’s dark in the back. Whatever it is he does so well, I’m sure I could match it. I could be him for you.”

“For how long? One, two minutes? Five?” When Rudy’s hand goes to cup his cheek, he takes it and pulls it away, gently, because he bears the man no ill will. Once upon a time, he’d have taken the offer without hesitation. “I’d pay for it in crushing regret the rest of my natural life.”

“I see. You’re one of the loyal, conscionable ones.” Rudy turns back to his drink, nurses it between his hands. It looks like he’ll survive the desillusion of being rejected.

“I suppose I am,” Richard says as he gets up, buttons his coat and tucks in his scarf. The veil of self-pity he’d cast over himself has been pulled away, making him feel more clear-headed than he probably ought to. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I respect it. Can’t blame a man for having a go, though, can you?” Rudy nods at him. “I hope your chap gets back to you, love, but if he doesn’t, and he keeps cold-shouldering you, there’s plenty of fish in the sea called London, especially for a stunner like you. Why would you keep waiting for one that refuses to bite?”

“Because he’s just scared,” Richard says, half to Rudy half to himself, thinking for a moment of that conversation behind the toolshed, and the way Thomas’s eyes had said everything his mouth couldn’t. “And I promised him _I_ wouldn’t be.”

Stepping out into the the fresh January air - a relief, really, and he breathes in deeply - he decides to walk back to the Palace to give himself time to sober up yet further and blow away the cobwebs. Already he feels the burden of guilt settling on his shoulders, for his weakness in coming to this place and letting a complete stranger fondle him. A lapse that’s sure to haunt him, because even though he and Thomas never officially formed an understanding with all that entails, he knows how betrayed Thomas is going to feel, and he is sorry for it. But he is even sorrier for forgetting about the promise he made Thomas behind the toolshed - for letting his own disappointment and insecurity prevail. He vows not to forget it again - what’s more, he’s going to keep it. Even if it’s the last thing he does.

He walks for about an hour until he feels sober enough, then goes into a pub within spitting distance of the Palace to use the washing room, rinsing his mouth and splashing water into his face. His reflection is not too alarming, so he crosses the street and tips his hat at the guard the way he always does as he heads inside. Perhaps typically, he receives a scolding from Mr. Wilson for taking so long (“for God’s sake, Ellis, you’ll catch your death one of these days walking around the city in this cold, go upstairs and sort yourself out before anyone sees you...”), but gets away with the rest of it.

One of these days, he thinks, his luck is bound to run out.

Several more days pass in silence, but Richard practises patience as best he can, refraining from dialing the Downton Abbey number even though his fingers itch to do so. Then one morning arrives a telegram addressed to him, with the Downton post office information stamped on the back. He takes it upstairs as quickly as he feels is prudent and rips it open.

ELLIS

ROYAL HOUSEHOLD

LONDON SW1

APOL FOR DELAY DOWAGER DIED MADNESS ENSUED WILL MISS THE OLD BAT STOP AGREE W PROPOSAL STOP TALK DETAILS OVER PHONE WHENEVER SUITS

TB


	13. Thomas

“You have a lovely time, now,” says Miss Baxter, gently insisting, like a mother sending a nervous child off to boarding school. Small, wispy and soft-spoken as always, her voice barely reaches over the hiss of the train that’s waiting at the platform. “Where are you meeting him? Harrogate?”

Thomas shakes his head. His stomach clenches. “York. He’s picking me up there. Rather insisted on it.”

Insisting, Thomas has been able to establish, is something Richard Ellis does rather well.

_“Richard, I bloody /know/ there isn’t a direct connection between Downton and Harrogate,” he’d said the last time they spoke on the telephone, tying up the final details. “For your information, I do know how to consult a timetable. It’s no problem, I can take a coach from Ripon or change trains in York. Done it a million times.”_

_“But you don’t have to,” Richard said, cheerfully. He was so damn /happy/, that man; all the time, about everything, but especially about this. “Spare yourself the expense and the hassle, get a ticket to York-”_

_“Richard, I can afford a train ticket to bloody Harrogate...”_

_“-Get a ticket to York, let me know what time you’re arriving, and I’ll be there to pick you up.”_

_“Pick me up,” Thomas repeated slowly. He took his fountain pen and thoughtlessly scribbled ‘time of arrival, York’ down on his notepad. “Pick me up how?”_

_“You’ll see,” Richard’d said, quietly gleeful in a way that translated even over the telephone line, and Thomas smiled, exasperated. He’d never been much for surprises, and being kept in the dark about things that affected him made him anxious, but he knew Richard wasn’t trying to ruffle his feathers by being cryptic. If anything, rather the opposite._

_“Mr. Ellis, I know you take your role as Yorkshire tour guide for the uninitiated very seriously-” Richard laughed. “-But if it's all the same to you, I would rather know what you’re planning. Whatever it is, I promise I’ll enjoy it just as much without the element of surprise.”_

_“No you won't. You’re only saying that to winkle it out of me, Mr. Barrow. Don't think I don't know what you're doing.”_

_“I don’t like surprises.”_

_“I get that feeling. And what if I were to promise you’ll like this one?”_

_“Richard, you don’t need to do this,” Thomas explained, patiently yet emphatically. “You don’t need to be all secretive and mysterious and plan everything to perfection. We’re men. Not giddy school girls with a crush. We’re meeting in the Yorkshire countryside for the purpose of having sex, let’s not mince words here.” He’d lowered his voice almost to a whisper. His heart thudded, and suddenly he hoped he hadn’t offended Richard by being so blunt._

_“Among other things.”_

_“What?”_

_“Among other things.” Richard laughed again, low and soft. “We’ll have sex, Thomas, no mistake about that. But I hope I’m not overstepping when I say that I’m also planning to use our days together to romance the pants right off of you.”_

_It wasn’t until after they hung up that Thomas realised Richard had outsmarted him, and kept his precious surprise._

_Infuriating._

“You should go,” Miss Baxter says, with a look at the station clock, and she gives him a paper-wrapped parcel. She’d kept it on her knees during the drive over, she in the front seat and he in the back. (It was Lady Mary who offered him the motorcar when she heard he needed to get to the station, which was… uncharacteristically kind of her. She probably was still, in her own way, making up for running to Carson back in July and throwing a fit because Barrow did things _differently_ , God forbid.)

“What is it?”

“Just some sandwiches Mrs. Patmore made at my request this morning. She knows they’re for you. She put in some leftover pie, as well.”

“Miss Baxter… Phyllis, I-” He feels himself choking up unexpectedly, and he fucking hates that, even in front of her, who has already seen him at his worst. It’s not like he’s going off to war, for God’s sake. But then, it’s not the sandwiches or the pie he’s bawling over. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, and kisses him on the cheek. He has learned to expect it by now; the first time had been a shock. But when it comes to reciprocating, he still struggles. “You deserve this, Thomas. More than anyone I know.”

It’s the same thing she'd told him, almost to the letter, when he finally confided in her that night back in January, stammering and choking on the words. She knew about him, of course, she’d known since Dr. Clarkson’s office and before then, even, but it was another thing to actually say it out loud. To say that he fancied a man, a fine man, who fancied him back.

“I know you think so, but-”

“Just remember what I always tell you. You’re so much braver than you give yourself credit for. Nothing you can’t accomplish, if you put your mind to it. And I know you want this, more than anything. To be happy.” She kisses him again, then steps back with one of those little smiles. “Try not to worry too much."

“Me, worry? Do I look like the type, Miss Baxter?” He makes a semi-stern face but can’t hold it for long and ends up smirking instead. “Truly… thank you.”

“Anytime, silly.” She looks slightly embarrassed, but also touched. “Now go on. Don’t want t'miss your train and get off to a bad start."

Indeed he does not.

He spends the journey reading the newspaper without absorbing a single word, checking his watch every few minutes, scolding himself for being so ridiculous, only to check again soon after. By the time he alights from the train in York roughly fifty minutes later, his mouth feels as dry as the desert and his heart is in his fucking throat.

_So much for not being a giddy school girl._

It is 9 February 1928, 10.42 in the morning when he steps out of the station - back in York _again,_ who’d have thought it, certainly not him a year ago - with his suitcase in one hand and Mrs. Patmore’s parcel in the other. Newspaper under his arm, although he’s sure he might as well throw it in the bin now, no point in hauling it around. It is cold, and overcast, but the sky is the colour of milk rather than grey, calm rather than stormy.

Richard is there. Across the street, tall and hard to miss, leaning against a car with a grin a mile wide on his face. The moment their eyes meet, he lifts his hand, and tips his hat.

The man has flair. Thomas has to give him that.

“That’s the surprise, then?” Thomas says once he’s within hearing distance, crossing the street. “You got us a swanky chariot?”

“You like it?” Richard pats the hood. “American, brand new, and ours for the next couple of days. Called in a favour with an old mate from back home. Good thing I saved it for the right occasion, it was worth the wait just to see the look on your face just now.”

Thomas smiles. He is surprised, he’ll admit that. Surprised and impressed, but he’s quite sure that that breathless feeling he’s experiencing has nothing at all to do with the car.

“It’s a beauty,” he says nonetheless, even though he hasn’t got the slightest interest in cars in general, even though he’s not even _looking_ at it, he’s saying it just to see the smile on Richard’s face, pleased and happy and _proud._ It is a strange thing, but some of that unadulterated joy feeds right back into him, like giving happiness is also getting a share of it for himself. “And I’ll enjoy watching you drive it.”

They’re not even in the car yet and he’s already flirting. This is going well.

“Will you, Mr. Barrow.” Richard clears his throat, ever so softly. He is wearing a hat Thomas hasn’t seen before, it complements the shape of his face in a different way. Some men just look silly in a fedora but not this one, this one knows how to wear a hat and no mistake, but Thomas prefers him without one all the same. “You know you can drive too, if you want.”

“Wouldn’t know how.” Thomas glances left, then right. Lowers his voice further. “You know you’re hardly circumspect when you’re draped over a car like that, don’t you?” He smiles, teasing. “Legs crossed, tipping your hat at a bloke. No one in their right mind would mistake you for a ladies’ man, posing like a peacock the way you do.”

“It’s a good thing then that I save it for occasions to impress you,” Richard volleys back. "Thrilled you’ve noticed my efforts, Mr. Barrow. How do you like my feathers? Preened them just for you.”

Thomas feels himself blushing. He’s going to have to find a way to untie his tongue if he’s ever to win a verbal sparring match with Richard, but this is one instance where he’s fine with losing. “I’m here, aren’t I? Back in fucking York, to meet _you_.”

“You’re here,” Richard confirms, unexpectedly softly, “you came,” and then they both just grin, elated.

“Let me take that,” Richard then says, and before Thomas can protest he’s taken his suitcase and opened the door. It is only then that Thomas sees how full the back seat is already - with Richard’s suitcases, plural, and paper grocer’s bags filled with God knows what. “Blimey, what’s all that?”

“My overnight suitcase. And other stuff we need. Linens, food, that sort of thing.”

All of a sudden, Mrs. Patmore’s sandwiches and cherry pie feel like small offerings. “You come prepared.”

“I had a lot of time to think about it.” Richard grins and walks around to the driver’s side. “The house has been abandoned and unlived-in for over a year. I’m not expecting much in terms of fresh linens and food supplies. We may have the odd mouse for company, though.”

They get in and close the doors. It shuts out most noises from outside, creating a little bubble just for the two of them. For the first time since July, they’re in the same space, close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss, if that were in any way sensible. Thomas turns to look out the window, trying to think of something other than this man’s tongue in his mouth.

“Smells good,” Richard says as he starts the car, pushes the gearshift into position. The engine roars to life. “Whatever’s inside that parcel, smells good.”

“Oh.” Thomas startles from his thoughts slightly. Getting into the car has altered the chemistry, and he feels hyper-aware of himself, not entirely in a pleasant way. He hopes it’s temporary. “Sandwiches, from Mrs. Patmore. And pie.”

“Aren’t you well cared for,” Richard says unironically, and Thomas shrugs. “I think I’ve also got some of my Mum’s ginger shortbread in the back there somewhere. I've asked her to stop stuffing me with sweets every time I drop by, but she seems to think I’m too skinny and need fattening up.”

The car pulls away from the curb.

“And she thinks you’re going to be staying at the house by yourself?”

“Well…” Richard gives him a sidelong glance. Sheepish. “The plan was to tell her that, but when it came time… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie.”

Thomas stiffens, and the temperature in the already cold car seems, for a moment at least, to drop below freezing. “You _told_ her?”

“I told her what I’ll be telling the neighbours if they ask, that I’m bringing a mate to help me get the house sorted.” Richard’s tone is apologetic. “I didn’t give her any specifics, but… she may have guessed anyway. She knows me, Thomas, and she knows… about me. Has done for a long time, Dad too. I told you this.” Thomas nods slowly, remembering the letter that had detailed exactly how different his and Richard’s circumstances had been. “They know and they love me all the same. What do you think that makes me feel like when I try and tell a lie in their faces? It’s _hard,_ Thomas, and I… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie about something that makes me as happy as this. I couldn’t treat you like some sordid secret, to be hidden even from the people who have always loved me unconditionally.”

Thomas slowly exhales. “It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry, Thomas, truly I-"

“Richard, it’s all right.” Thomas reaches out and puts his hand on Richard’s knee. “I know how hard it is to keep these things bottled up inside, to keep that wall up when some people are intent on tearing it down with kindness.” He smiles, and pauses. “I told someone as well.”

“Did you? Really?” Richard’s tone borders on incredulous. “Who?”

“Miss Baxter. She saw me off at the station this morning. Wished me a good time. I won’t lie, that felt a little awkward.”

Richard laughs, and just like that the frost is out of the air. “Did you tell her who you were going to meet?”

“I told her when you first suggested it New Year’s Eve. Bared my heart to her, I did, bared it all. Her advice to me was to do what made me happy, not what fear was telling me. So that’s what I did.”

“Thomas,” Richard says softly, a little hoarsely, “you have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that.”

“Made you breathless again, didn’t I?” Thomas teases. “I seem to be doing that a lot.”

“Yes, you do. With your words, your smiles, the way you are touching my leg right now.”

“I like touching you.” Thomas shifts his heretofore immobile hand a little further up Richard’s leg, squeezing slightly before sliding it inward, into the ‘V’ of his legs. He can hear Richard’s breath hitch, feel his hips shift on the driver’s seat. God, it makes him feel powerful. “I’ve missed touching you.”

“God, Thomas, I-” Richard’s voice lacks air, and it’s making him hard, knowing that he can affect Richard like this by having a hand on his inner thigh, just having it rest there. “Do you want us to get into an accident? You have no idea what this is doing to me.”

“Oh, I have an idea,” Thomas says. He feels fully in control right now, and he likes it. “If it’s anything like what listening to you at New Year’s made me feel like.”

“Yeah- yeah, that was… ah, _Thomas._ ” Thomas couldn’t help himself, has slipped his hand up even further between Richard’s legs, eliciting a high-pitched sound from the back of Richard’s throat. “Thomas, I’ll steer this car off the road at this rate, and us with it-”

_Well. Can’t have that._

Thomas backs off, chuckling, but before he can take his hand off Richard’s leg completely Richard says, “Here,” and he puts his knee against the steering wheel to keep it steady, pulling off his glove and offering Thomas his bare hand. Thomas smiles and takes it gratefully, lowering both their hands to rest on the seat between them, looking down to marvel at what their fingers look like joined together, and how good it feels, this simple act of intimacy. He curls his fingers slightly and watches Richard mirror the movement, skin brushing skin. Richard’s fingers are well-warmed from the glove, but Thomas rubs them all the same, worried his cooler hand will be unpleasant to the touch.

“Sorry about this,” he murmurs, and even though he doesn’t specify what ‘this’ refers to, Richard seems to get it anyway, shaking his head and smiling. “We’ll share warmth,” he says, and even though it may not be _quite_ the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to him, Thomas reckons it’s right up there with the best.

The drive from York to Harrogate takes about an hour and a half, and they spend most of it alternatively chatting and looking out the window, taking in the countryside. The weather seems to be clearing up a little, and Richard occasionally points out the landmarks they pass on the way, sharing the odd childhood memory. It’s pleasant, and companionable, and even though Richard regularly has to operate the gearshift or put both hands on the wheel, his hand returns to hold Thomas’s every time.

Lovely.

They pass through Knaresborough, taking the viaduct across the river, and turn southwest towards Harrogate itself. This is where Richard’s narration skills really start taking off, and he describes to Thomas how his grandparents used to take him into town visit the fair, the cattle market or the parade. His old folks didn’t have much in terms of money - it was all in their property and small livestock - but they treated him whenever they could, and to him those few weeks out of the year he got to spend at the house at the Nidderdale doorstep were enough of a treat in itself. After a while, however, he seems to notice Thomas getting quieter and stops himself.

“Am I talking too much?” he asks, sporting an embarrassed little smile. “Please tell me if I am.”

“No,” Thomas says quietly. “I like listening to you talk.”

“What is it, then?”

“You have so many stories. I enjoy hearing them, don’t get me wrong, but…” Thomas feels something inside him close off. “I have nothing to match them with.”

“I’m sure you do.”

 _No, I really don’t._ He doesn’t say it, however. It’s been far too lovely a drive to spoil it at the last minute with his shitty childhood memories.

They leave Harrogate behind them, and this is when Richard starts taking smaller roads, the twisting and turning ones that require him to keep both hands on the wheel, until after about twenty minutes they reach a hamlet of no more than seven or eight modest farmhouses dappled across the hilly landscape. The word to describe it would be 'idyllic'. Peaceful, too, and sleepy, both of which suit Thomas fine. They turn into the gravel drive of one of the houses, grey stone building half hidden behind a crumbling shed, hugged between little groups of trees and thorny undergrowth that's been allowed to do its own thing for years. The house itself is nothing grand - it has a slate roof that has seen better days and the woodwork is in desperate need of a paint job, but it's a quaint little house and no mistake. Richard parks the car and turns off the engine.

"Here we are," he says redundantly, and it occurs to Thomas that Richard Ellis might just be _nervous._

What a novel thought.

"How long since you were last here?" he asks.

Richard exhales. “Eighteen months, maybe? I tried to visit Uncle Hugh here regularly when his health started to decline, keep him company and help him out some. I was planning another visit when he was taken ill and rushed to hospital, where he later died.”

“Can’t be easy then, being back here,” Thomas says cautiously. “It sounds like you were quite close.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we were all right, Uncle Hugh and I.” Richard has his hands in his lap, thoughtfully pulling off the remaining glove. “As I told you, he had no children himself. Lived here all alone in the end. I felt sorry for him. I know Mum was worried about him as well.”

“Widower?” Thomas asks, looking around to take in the position of the house and the view it faces. Richard was right, it’s beautiful country, but he reckons it could get lonely for an older bloke living by himself.

“No. No, he was never married.” Richard looks up, meets Thomas’s eye, and there’s something in his face that gives Thomas pause.

Oh.

_Oh._

Stammering a bit, Richard finishes, “You see, he... he was the same as me, Thomas. Uncle Hugh - he was a man like us.”


	14. Thomas (cont'd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content ahead! Sorry, I don't like giving everything away up front, so you'll have to continue to read to find out what it is :) The following chapters are going to be fairly explicit, just as a general warning in advance. But there will also be talking, general cuteness/romancing and inevitably some angst. Plenty to enjoy, I hope!
> 
> There will also be more about Uncle Hugh at some point.

Thomas can’t believe he’s heard that right, but Richard’s expression tells him that he must have. “Richard, I… I don’t really know what to say to that.” And he doesn't.

“Not much that can be said, I suppose. Except that I wish I’d have had the opportunity to bring you here while he was alive. He was quite a character - you would’ve liked him, I reckon.” Richard smiles, and something distant, like a memory, flits across his face. It makes him look uncharacteristically vulnerable, which takes Thomas by surprise, but before he can get his finger behind it and take a closer look at this side of Richard Ellis he hasn’t seen before, it’s gone almost as quickly as it came. With a grin that’s just a little too easy, too bright to be entirely genuine, Richard reaches for the door handle. “Come on, let’s go check out our humble abode for the next two days. I’ve been beating you to death with it long enough.”

Richard leads the way through a small wooden gate that gives access to a modest courtyard in front of the house. The gate creaks on its rusty hinges as it swings shut behind Thomas.

“My grandfolks used to keep chickens and geese here back in the day,” Richard says as they follow the path that leads up to the front door. “Couple of goats be grazing out in the back, behind the house. Good for milk and cheese. But my gran was all about the chickens. Raised a couple of prize winners in her time. You wouldn't believe the racket those geese made, though.”

Thomas tries to picture it - Richard at eight, nine, ten years old, city boy running about these parts a couple of weeks out of the year - but woefully fails. “It’s beautiful down here,” he says by way of compromise, and he means it. “Must be paradise in the summer.”

“Oh yeah - that’s how I remember it, anyway.” Coming up to the front door, Richard digs into his pocket for the key. Holding it up, “Fingers crossed Mum gave me the right one,” and laughing when Thomas scowls, unimpressed with the joke.

“You’re a funny one, Ellis. Hilarious.”

Still grinning, Richard sticks the key into the lock. It turns easily enough, but Richard has to jimmy it a bit and put his shoulder into the door to make it swing open. “Ah, there we are.”

_Thank-fucking-God._

Thomas has Richard by the lapels before the door’s even clicked shut behind them, pushing him back into the nearest wall all in a rush, murmuring “Hat off,” and if Richard's prompt obedience wasn’t enough of a push to make him take what he wants, the little gasp and whimper escaping his parted lips sure do the trick. Front to front, pressed flush together, they kiss heatedly, Richard humming when Thomas teases along his bottom lip and offering the inside of his mouth. He's almost surprisingly docile, following Thomas's lead, receiving what he gives but doing so very enthusiastically. His hand holding his hat is out of commission, but Thomas can feel the other on the back of his head, fingers pressing, raking through his hair.

When Thomas pulls back to catch his breath and their eyes meet, the edges of Richard's face are soft and slack with wanting, his mouth flushed, and it's one of the most arousing things Thomas ever remembers seeing. That a man, _this man_ , is standing there with the taste of him still on his lips, breathing hard and speechless.

He wants to see it more.

"Want you," he whispers, _why is he whispering there is no one here_ , "want you, Richard," _why are they wearing so many clothes, why won't these buttons yield_ , and he kisses at Richard's neck and drops his hands to his waist, tracing the shape of his hips, _did he make him hard in the car earlier he's sure of it, the way he parted his legs and pressed into his hand is making Thomas hard /now/,_ "want you in my mouth," and he's already got the hard tile of the floor against his knees and his fingers on the fastenings of Richard's trousers when Richard suddenly stays his hand. "Thomas, wait-"

Words he's heard before.

_Thomas, wait. I changed my mind, Thomas. You forget yourself, Thomas. Aren’t you a greedy thing, Thomas._

He jerks his hands away and scrambles to his feet as though slapped in the face, stepping back from Richard until he’s put the breadth of the hallway between them. His response takes Richard by surprise, he can see that, and he knows even as he’s doing it that he’s overreacting, but he can’t fucking go to that place again, that place where he feels caught out and exposed and _small_.

But it appears he’s already there.

“I’m not some starved tart,” he bites out at Richard, who only now seems to catch on.

“Didn’t think or imply you were.” He puts his hat away and steps closer, reaches out as if to take Thomas’s hand, but Thomas keeps them stiffly by his side, unyielding. “Thomas, if you’re a tart, I’m ten times worse.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?” Still biting, and Richard ducks his head.

“Only saying, if I’d had a penny for each time I thought of your mouth between my legs ever since July, I’d have amassed a small fortune by now.” He steps closer still and curls his fingers around Thomas’s clenched fist despite getting no encouragement. “Look at me, Thomas.”

Thomas does. “I’m sorry,” he says, flat.

“No need.”

“I shouldn’t’ve-”

“Thomas.” Richard leans in, and their foreheads touch. “I very nearly gave in. I swear to God I wanted to. I just thought-”

“Just thought _what_.”

“I just thought I’d show you the house first,” Richard finishes, sheepishly, and _fuck_ , of course that’s what it was, leave it to Richard to be so excited about arranging a private hideaway - which, admittedly, is perfect for their needs - that he’d choose a fucking tour over having his cock sucked right then and there. In all humility, Thomas doesn’t think he’d be exaggerating if he said he is expert at it. Enjoys doing it, too. He’d have had his legs give out under him in next to no time at all.

“You’re a peculiar one, Mr. Ellis,” he mutters, shaking his head, “but I like you.”

_Wouldn’t have been on his knees half a minute ago if he didn’t._

Richard is breathing against his lips, clearly offering a reconciliatory kiss should Thomas wish to claim one, but Thomas has lost the mood for it. Admittedly, he’s also being petulant, and hating himself for spoiling things when they’re barely in the door. “I like you too, Thomas,” he murmurs. “Very much, as you know, but it bears repeating.”

“Never patronise me,” Thomas says softly. “Can’t bear it, not from you.”

“Never,” Richard vows, “and if I should ever forget myself and make you feel patronised, you must promise to call me out on it.”

“Well, I can make that promise easily enough.” Thomas sighs, and even though he still doesn’t take the offer of a kiss, the knot in his stomach dissolves somewhat. “... A small fortune, is that right?”

“Oh yeah.” Richard laughs, somewhat embarrassed, which makes Thomas think it’s true. His fingers reappear at the back of Thomas’s neck, gently stroking, and Thomas’d be lying if he said he wasn’t quickly getting to be wax in Richard’s hands again. “All these months, you were with me, Thomas Barrow. In the attics, in the dining hall, in every room of Buckingham Palace, in every possible way.”

_That’s… something to think about._

“Come on,” Richard says, and Thomas relaxes his hand, opening it so Richard can take it, “quick tour of the house and then we’ll get our things up in here and get settled in.”

The house is unpretentious but charming. Downstairs - hallway, sitting room with a fireplace that looks well used, kitchen with a woodstove, pantry with absolutely nothing inside it, small water closet with an odour like stagnant water. Small backyard facing a hill, and more trees. Upstairs - a master bedroom with a double bed at the back of the house, secondary bedroom and washing room at the front, and a loft. Very few signs of animal habitation, thank God, and they don’t look fresh, so that is encouraging.

They spend about an hour and a half on chores - airing the house to chase away the musty smell, making the bed (both beds, in case any nosy neighbours were to drop by), unclogging the chimney, checking appliances and lamps (“Eureka,” Richard says when the light bulb hanging over the dining table flickers to life, earning himself a jab in the flank) and storing Richard’s fresh purchases in the pantry. They boil water for tea and eat Mrs. Patmore’s lunch standing up in the kitchen, ravenous by now.

“Love me some cherry pie,” Richard sighs when he’s picked his plate clean to the last crumb, and he puts it in the sink, licking his fingers unscrupulously. “Right, I’m going to check the shed.”

“I guess that leaves me to do the washing up, then,” Thomas says drily, at which Richard laughs.

“Leave it. We’re in the country, Thomas, and we’re not serving the King and Queen of England tonight. We can do whatever the hell we like.”

He goes outside whistling, and it begins to dawn on Thomas that for all his metropolitan ways and grandstanding about York as the navel of the world, Richard Ellis may just be a country boy at heart.

He busies himself for another twenty minutes or so, taking the curtains from their rails and carrying them into the backyard for a good spanking with a carpet beater he’s found, then leaving them outside to let the fresh country air do the rest. He’s gotten a bit hot under the collar from all that physical activity, so he strips down to his braces and wanders out to the front to see what Richard is up to, tapping a cigarette from the case the Crawleys gifted him at Christmas.

What Richard is up to turns out to be chopping firewood in the courtyard. He’s gone one step further than Thomas and slipped his braces from his shoulders, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows too. A cigarette between his lips, just hanging there dangling from the corner of his mouth, decoration more than anything. For a minute or two Thomas watches him, leaning on the fence as he smokes, before making himself known.

“Looks like you know what you’re doing there.”

Richard turns around, surprised, and laughs. “Wasn’t just that axe that was a bit rusty at first, but it’s coming back to me. Want to give it a try yourself?”

“No.” Thomas grins, inhaling deeply and exhaling at his leisure, enjoying the feeling of it. He hasn’t had a cigarette since this morning. “Prefer to watch.”

“I could teach you.”

“I’m sure you could. Still prefer to watch.” Thomas puts one foot up, casual-like, striking a bit of a pose himself. Or making an attempt at one, at least. Was a time when that worked like a charm on blokes he was trying to impress, but he was a lot younger then, back when his hair was all black and his waistline didn’t yet betray a love for chocolate cake. It’s starting to do so, and he doesn’t like it, but he hopes he still looks good enough in shirtsleeves to attract a man’s eye. “Who taught you?”

“Grampa did.” Leaving the axe in the chopping block, Richard walks on over and leans back into the fence from the opposite side, taking a kerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his face. “He, and gran too, taught me everything about life in the country. Didn’t much care for York, as I recall; you may find something to relate to there. They were proud of me, of course, when I moved to the big city, but I think grampa especially would rather have seen me move out here and take up farming. Said I had the heart for it.”

“He may have been right there,” Thomas lets slip, and he clears his throat when Richard turns his head towards him, curious, intrigued. Richard is leaning back against the fence on his elbows, cigarette idle between his first and middle finger, and Thomas can’t seem to stop himself from admiring his bare forearms. “You know, no point in lighting a cigarette if you’re not going to smoke it.”

Richard laughs, low and a little self-consciously. “To tell you the truth, I don’t much care for it. Took up the habit when I was young, to be one of the crowd, and all that. Never bothered to quit. You?”

“Care for it too much,” Thomas confesses with a grimace. “Makes me feel good, you know? Calms me.”

“Yeah.” Richard nods distractedly, watching Thomas. “And you look it, too. At ease, confident. It first struck me when we shared five minutes of air back at Downton. ‘Wish I could make smoking look that good,’ I remember thinking.”

“Unless you learn to enjoy it, you never will impress anyone,” Thomas says. “Stick to splitting logs for that, or driving an automobile.”

He may just given himself away there, but fuck if he cares. Richard laughs, and seems pleased.

“Say, I…” Thomas coughs, tipping his head in the direction of the house. “I couldn’t help but notice you have a broken clock in there. Antique lantern clock, brass, over the mantelpiece.”

“Oh, yeah. Been there forever. Can’t remember the last time I saw it in working order. Some family heirloom, I reckon, not worth a whole lot but my gran loved that thing. My Mum actually asked me to bring it back to York for her. Not sure if it can be fixed, but as a keepsake-”

“I can take a look at it,” Thomas interrupts, not to be rude, but he’s learned by now that once Richard gets to talking about his family history, he gets lost in his own memories easily. “I mean, it might be unfixable, but if it’s not, I could try to get it running again. I haven’t got the proper tools here, obviously, but... I can give it my best shot.”

As he speaks - bumbles, rather - Richard slowly turns around to face him. “You know about clocks?”

“My Dad was a clockmaker. Had a workshop back home, taught me a thing or two when I was a lad. There isn’t a clock at the Abbey that I haven’t opened and looked inside at some point. Usually get by with small repairs without having to call in the professionals.” He shrugs. “I guess I understand them. Know what makes them tick, to use a tired phrase. Can’t say that about most people.”

Richard shakes his head, thoughtful. “My, Mr. Barrow, aren’t you a wonder,” he says softly, without a trace of irony, and Thomas doesn’t quite know what to make of that. He drops the stub of his cigarette and stomps it out, glancing over at the chopping block and the pile of firewood beside it.

“Care to finish that later, farmer?”

Richard smiles. “What about the curtains? Don’t much care for a fishbowl.”

“I reckon we’ll be all right upstairs.”

They’ve started undressing before they’re even halfway up the stairs. It’s only in the bedroom that they establish they’ve both brought a jar of vaseline, so that works out rather well. The bed is large enough, and comfortable, and before long Thomas finds himself curled up on his back, one leg around Richard’s hip and the other lifted up over his shoulder, and he’s fully exposed, fully open to Richard’s gaze and the three fingers he’s got in him already, slowly twisting and thrusting and stretching him as though preparing him for a fourth, which at this point he almost thinks he could take. He feels dizzy and delirious, almost out of his mind with pleasure, and he’s vaguely aware of Richard’s own strained breathing until those self-assured fingers curve just so and start massaging him _right there_ , then his world narrows even more and he lets out an obscene groan as he feels a single, fat drop leak from his untouched prick onto his stomach, and then another, as if Richard were expertly forcing it out of him.

“Please,” he whines, breathy and plaintive. He’s beyond caring for his dignity. “Richard, please.”

Richard slowly swivels his wrist, angling his fingers away from that spot. He’s paying attention, seeing everything, but Thomas doesn’t care about that either. All he cares about is for those fingers to return where he wants them most, and when they do, stroking inside him with purpose, Thomas jolts, his pelvis rocking off the bed as though electrified, seeking that friction.

“Yes,” Richard grates out, low. It’s the first thing he’s said in a while. The pressure inside Thomas disappears again, and he blinks, whimpering, trembling on Richard’s hand. There is a moment of stillness, and they look at each other, their heavy breathing drowning out all else. There is no other sound, no thought other than of what they are doing. Thomas feels stretched, and full, and he needs _more_. He whines, and tips his pelvis, not getting why Richard has stopped.

“Yes,” Richard says again, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, “go on, then. Let me see you take what you want. Use my fingers for yourself.”

And Thomas, getting it finally, obeys - using his legs and feet to brace himself on the bed, on Richard, as he starts fucking himself properly on those three fingers, sweat soon beading on his brow and gathering behind his knees, arse almost lifting off the bed as he chases that contact he needs, and he's saying things like “wider” and “there” and eventually “move” so Richard starts participating again, using his fingers like they were his prick, and now he and Thomas are moving together, in close cooperation. “More,” Thomas pants, “oh, _please-_ ” and Richard obeys then too, pumping his fingers with more force not only in his wrist but in his whole forearm, and Thomas swears he can feel his thrusts all the way up to his throat and this, this is what he needs. What he thinks of when he is in his bedroom at Downton by himself, wailing into the pillow in frustration when he can't quite get the release he hankers for.

“Good,” Richard murmurs, encouraging, and where he’s finding the coherency to talk like this Thomas will never know, “beautiful, Thomas,” and it’s that what does it, because Thomas comes right then, and it’s so intense he has to cover his mouth with both hands, for God’s sake, it almost hurts, he can feel his eyes burning and his throat aching, but it’s been way too long and it’s such a _relief_ , and he’s so fucking _grateful_ that Richard seems to instinctively know to keep his fingers right where they are, unmoving but present, to understand that Thomas needs them to keep him anchored while he loses his goddamn mind.

And the best part of it all is that while he’s still shaking with the force of what just hit him - while he still has Richard’s fingers inside him, bloody hell - Richard leans down and kisses him, cradling his cheek like he’s holding something infinitely precious, again saying “beautiful,” and Thomas breathlessly laughs, laughs into his mouth while his whole body slowly turns to jelly and the voices in his head, for a minute at least, fall completely silent.

Once he’s recovered enough of his strength, and been wiped down by an attentive pair of hands wielding a washcloth, he reciprocates by using his fingers on Richard the same way, keeping himself propped up on his elbow as he leans over him and watches the man come apart. It’s the first time he’s done this to him, so he checks, “Can you get there like this?”

“Usually need a little help,” Richard gasps, digging his heels into the bed as Thomas gives him a taste of his own medicine, slowly rotating his wrist as he pulls out and goes back in to the last knuckles, curling his fingers and massaging to the front insistently. Richard groans and arches back into the bed, and Thomas wants to facetiously ask him _are you quite sure about that_ but refrains.

He does see a challenge for him here, however, to be boldly taken on at some point.

“Show me, then,” he says, and Richard doesn’t need more incentive than that to reach down and start working himself over in time with Thomas’s strokes. He’s biting his lip and gasping erratically and Thomas is mesmerised, forgetting to breathe himself as Richard tenses and moves his hand faster, twisting his wrist and Thomas follows his lead and Richard _yelps-_

It is loud, and by force of habit Thomas covers his mouth quick as a flash. Richard stares at him, wide-eyed and unblinking, and even though they’ve both gone abruptly still, Thomas can feel Richard clenching around his fingers, not once but continuously, can feel him moan against his hand as he keeps it over his mouth. Curious, he presses down a little more firmly, and takes note of the way Richard’s eyelashes flutter. He is teetering right on that edge, and staying there. 

_Interesting._

He removes his hand and immediately gets a desperate and raspy “mouth… _mouth_ ,” from Richard and he acts promptly, replacing Richard’s hand on his cock with his lips and pressing with his fingers inside him. Richard comes almost instantly, and Thomas hums around him, gratified to take what he gives. One day he would like to finish with his mouth around a man’s prick like this, finish together, at the same instant. He’s never quite managed it timing wise, but… one can dream. 

For now, however - as he curls himself into Richard’s side, listening to him recover his breath - he can’t think of anything left to wish for.


	15. Richard

It is unimaginably nice to kiss and cuddle after a satisfying sexual encounter without having to worry about falling into the gap between two beds. Pure luxury to be able to roll over and stretch out and play wrestle a bit and not care about the noise they’re making in the process. Lovely, too, to find oneself on a designated side of the bed - in Richard’s case, the right - without even having decided on one.

And yet, for all the space they have at their disposal, they still end up lying as close together as they possibly can - on their sides, face to face, staring at each other. Drinking each other in, it feels like, and Richard revels in it, in how relaxed Thomas seems, both of them nude except for the glove on Thomas’s hand, but Richard isn’t going to push his luck and comment on that now. They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it, but at this point he barely even sees it anymore. It’s a part of Thomas, and to him Thomas is perfect, and he’s sure he’ll still feel the same way when he’s seen what it hides.

“You are rather a mess, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas tells him, lifting his hand to pat at Richard’s hair, gently running his fingers through it.

“Don’t mind being a mess for you,” Richard lazily replies. “Rather enjoy it, in fact.”

Thomas leans up briefly and kisses him. “Lots of things you enjoy, aren’t there.”

For a moment Richard holds his breath, wondering if Thomas will bring up what happened at the very end there, but Thomas lies down again, hand still resting comfortably in Richard’s hair.

Richard is glad for the reprieve. Truth be told, he’s not quite sure what happened himself.

“You don’t know the half of it yet.”

“I’m enjoying finding out, though.”

“Are you?”

_Christ, Ellis, quit fishing._

He half expects Thomas to call him out on it, but no - he merely smiles and closes his eyes, looking the very picture of bliss. “Mmm. Enjoying being with you.”

Richard would be lying if he said those words didn’t inject a rush of warmth straight into his heart. It makes him- God, it makes him want to pin Thomas down into the bed and kiss him until he’s gasping, that’s what. He only refrains because Thomas still has his eyes closed and seems perfectly at peace where he is, and perhaps for the selfish reason that he doesn’t want to lose the wonderful feeling of Thomas’s fingers tucked into his hair.

Unfortunately, that very feeling also happens to be a stark reminder of a certain confession he has yet to make, one he knows he shouldn’t put off for too long. But however much he wants to get it out of the way, off his chest, now seems hardly the time, with Thomas all fucked out and relaxed and _happy._

Then again, perhaps now is the perfect time for exactly that reason. Christ, why is he being so indecisive?

He doesn’t know how Thomas will take it, is why. Probably like Richard would take being told Thomas had had a flirtation with a stranger in a bar, but worse. Richard had already felt the sting of the green-eyed monster’s teeth when he learned about the existence of a Chris Webster, and that was even before anything of significance happened between him and Thomas.

“Aren’t you going to say it back?” Smiling, Thomas opens his eyes. Stretches a little and folds his arm under his head, easy, comfortable. Doing some fishing of his own, it seems like. Richard likes seeing him like this, a man with not a care in the world.

Which is precisely the reason why the words he’s been weighing in his mind all goddamn day stick in his throat.

_Go on, Ellis, grow a pair. Out with it!_

“Do you need telling I enjoy being with you?”

“I may do,” Thomas replies, practically _purring_ , and he is pulling Richard closer for another kiss and Christ, he’s so affectionate and tactile when he’s just had an orgasm and this is not making things easier in the slightest-

“Thomas,” he sighs into his mouth, and then he has to shut up for a minute because he gets distracted by the way Thomas nips at his bottom lip and soothes the sting with his tongue, “Thomas, I have to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Thomas agrees, clearly not grasping the full significance of these words yet, and Richard can’t fucking bear the way Thomas is looking at him right now, like he hung the moon in the sky and the stars with it, when he is about to tell him something that’ll prove the exact opposite.

“I went to a bar in Soho last month.”

He probably could have segued into the story a little more gently, but to Thomas’s credit, he lets Richard rattle off the whole tale without interrupting, even though he does frown and pull back his hand, which hurts, but Richard knows perfectly well it’s the least he deserves. At least he’s not getting out of bed and putting his clothes on and demanding that Richard drive him to the nearest train station… yet.

“I’m sorry for blindsiding you with this,” he finishes, praying Thomas will see his guilt and know it to be sincere. “I’m sorry for the whole thing. But I felt you should know.”

“You felt I should know.” Thomas has pulled the quilt up to his chest, and Richard notices they’re losing both daylight and heat fast now that the sun is setting - he probably ought to finish the job he was doing outside and make a fire soon. “You felt I should know you went to Soho during work hours and got drunk on something vaguely resembling whisky and oh, turned down a man who offered to suck your cock while you were at it."

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Richard blinks - it’s not the reaction he was expecting. “Why did I turn him down? Or why did I feel you ought to know?”

“Both apply.”

“Well, I…” Richard takes a moment to sort his thoughts. “First off, I didn’t go there to have my cock sucked-”

“Are you quite sure about that? Because it seems to me that is why one goes to a bar in Soho. I did it myself a couple of times and each time it was for that exact reason.”

Thomas’s tone is chilly, and his words sting, but Richard knows he has no right to an opinion here. _Whatever it takes to get by,_ isn’t that the adage he claims to live by? “I wasn’t interested in that,” he says emphatically. “I felt miserable. I thought I’d cocked things up and I missed you. I just wanted to go to a place where I didn’t have to pretend, where I could be myself for an hour or two. Christ, you know better than anyone how lonely it gets. As for the bloke - Rudy, if that was even his real name - I wasn't interested for a simple reason. He wasn't you." Thomas huffs, which Richard ignores. "And however ill you may think of me after this, I still maintain, and will continue to do so, that you had a right to know. Because like it or not, you're the only man I'm currently shagging."

_"Am I."_

"Yes," Richard says, more sharply than he probably has a right to, "you are."

 _By the way, Mr. Barrow, have you perchance heard from Mr. Webster lately?_ Richard swallows the words - he hates being petty - and they lie side by side in mulish silence for a minute.

"I do like it," Thomas eventually says. Curt, surly. “For your information.”

"Beg your pardon?"

"Being the only man you're shagging, I do like it."

 _Oh._ "You don't sound it," Richard chances, knowing he is trying his luck here. Getting in with the lions and praying they’ve been fed.

"I'm sure I'll sound happier once I stop being angry."

"You have every right to be angry."

"But I don't, do I?" Thomas sighs, and with that sigh some of the built-up tension between them is released. "We never made any promises on that score."

"But it was implied. At least in my mind it was."

Thomas's fingers are getting restless, which Richard takes to mean he is starting to crave a smoke. Unfortunately, they've left most of their clothes well out of reach. He wants to take his hands and kiss those fingers one by one as a distraction, but he isn't that sure of himself yet.

"Reminds me of a… a man I was once seeing," Thomas says, surprisingly softly. "I was much younger then, as in wet behind the ears. Hopelessly in love, too, as I thought he was with me. Never asked him to make any promises, but being that naive I just assumed-" He pauses, and it occurs to Richard that they are once again facing each other. He takes that as an encouraging sign. "Anyway, long story short, I went over one day and found him bollocks-deep in some whippersnapper's mouth. It was like a scene from an under-the-counter erotic novel. He wasn't even shy about it, either. Said we'd never work out together if I was planning on being _needy_." He scoffs, and this time Richard does take his hand. He isn't rebuffed. "Then he said I was welcome to join in if I wanted to."

"You didn't, I presume."

"Richard, I was broken-hearted over that son of a bitch. I got out of there as fast as I could, to lick my wounds in private. When he came calling again a few weeks later, I told him to stick his prick somewhere else."

Richard smiles; he can imagine it easily. "You're a prouder man than I. I've known men like that, and it took me far longer to wise up when it came to that sort. In fact, I once found myself in a similar situation as the one you described, with a lover and another man. Was made the same proposition."

"And you… accepted?"

This time, Richard’s smile is more of a grimace. "Like I said - you're a prouder man than I, Thomas."

"May not have had much of a choice in the matter,” Thomas suggests.

"That may be true. But if I'm entirely honest… I can't deny I probably wanted to accept. I was young and, shall we say, eager for experiences. Eager to be wanted, to feel desired, and all those things that seem important when you're that age."

Thomas nods, and Richard is glad he seems to have an understanding of what he is describing and isn’t about to ridicule him for his youthful exploits. Especially since it doesn't exactly fill him with any great pride to speak of these things. “Regretting it?” Thomas asks, just a bit of curiosity lurking underneath the surface.

Richard considers his answer. "There were… things to enjoy about it, I'll say that much. They were not unkind, not ungentle with me. But I didn't feel good about myself afterwards, and I never did it again."

Thomas doesn't respond, just nods again, and puts his fingers back into Richard's hair, looking thoughtful.

"Look," he finally says, and Richard can tell they are circling back to where this conversation began, "I'm not an idiot. Not that naive boy anymore. I’ve been to Soho and I know what those places are like. I know you only have to walk in there to have some bloke hanging on your arm asking for a good time, so I can't exactly fault you for it. Handsome fellow like you would have trouble keeping 'em at a distance. I get that, I do."

"But-?"

"But let's get one thing clear. If ever you find yourself wanting to get your hair touched, or your cock sucked or suchlike, you come to me and no one else."

_Oh._

Richard licks his lips. "That's a promise I can make. Gladly."

"We have an understanding, then," Thomas says, still in that same _tone_ that is doing things to Richard, sending shivers down his spine.

"Yeah… yeah."

"Good."

They’re kissing the next moment, it’s Thomas kissing Richard and it’s Richard being pinned into the bed and he’s loving it, God, Thomas can do this to him anytime he cares to and he’s not even embarrassed to realise it, _now who’s the tart_ , he’s already well on his way to hard before Thomas’s hand even wanders that way-

“Sorry,” he mutters, apologetic, because he senses Thomas is nowhere near back to recovered or ready for this sort of thing again, but Thomas just reaches for the jar.

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Ellis,” he says, devilish little smirk on his lips, and his hand returns slick by just the right amount, grasping him firmly. As he begins stroking him, he observes, “You’re on exactly the right side of the bed, have you realised?”

Meaning he couldn’t do this with his left hand. Almost cavalier about it.

“Wouldn’t care which hand you used,” Richard pants. He’s got one knee up and to the side and is thrusting up, towards Thomas, who is keeping a firm grip but a slow pace. Almost _punishingly_ slow, one might think.

“Would if you knew.”

“Don’t care what it looks like,” Richard insists, and Thomas slows down even more which is maddening, but Richard isn’t going to budge, not over this. “Wouldn’t put me off you one bit.”

“You’re being very argumentative, Mr. Ellis.” Now Thomas is using that voice again, and Richard rolls his hips up and whines, _dear God_ , why is this affecting him so? “It’s a good thing you have a very pretty face. Lets you get away with a lot, I’ll wager.”

“Thomas-”

“Doesn’t it?”

Richard shakes his head. For all Thomas’s teasing, he is getting awfully close and it’s mostly his words that are doing it. His prick feels like it’s on fire slipping through Thomas’s fist. “I- I don’t know.”

“I think it does.” Thomas sighs and speeds up again, thank God, twisting his wrist. “I could be very upset with you, you know. Far more than I am. But I forgive you.”

Richard moans and rocks his hips faster to match Thomas’s speed. Wheezes, “Thank you,” and Thomas looks at him, something changed in his face. Contemplative, and not entirely sure of himself anymore.

“You’re… enjoying this,” he says softly, and Richard nods. Doesn’t quite know what to make of it himself, except that it feels _good_.

“Would tell you if I wasn’t.”

“You would?”

“Yes.” Richard has a sudden thought. “Got a word for that, don’t we?”

Thomas nods slowly, remembering. “I suppose we do.” He leans in and kisses Richard on the lips, gently. “Are you ready for me to let you come, then, _Mr. Ellis_?” he asks, only half serious this time, but it makes Richard’s prick throb in his hand all the same.

“God, yeah, I’m ready.”

“Yeah, you are, aren’t you?” Thomas kisses him again and leans up, working Richard over in long, steady pulls, root to tip, fast and insistent. “So ready to come for me,” he murmurs, and Richard can feel it happening right then, the pressure between his legs releasing, heat rushing out of him and streaking over his stomach and Thomas’s fingers. Thomas strokes him through it, which feels incredible up to a certain point, then Richard reaches down to stay his hand and Thomas stops immediately, understanding it’s getting to be too much. Everything is just more sensitive the second time around, easier to hurt - Thomas knows that as well as any man.

“Lovely,” Thomas breathes, and he’s kissing Richard again, just a peck on the lips, “you’re lovely, Richard Ellis, and you’re mine.”

Well, Richard isn’t about to argue with that.

They spend a few minutes in silence, trying to make sense of what just happened. Richard can’t say he is sorry for how his confession has panned out, but it’s taken him aback some. Thomas, too, seems preoccupied, but eventually he leans up and surveys the mess Richard has made of himself. “Let me get you cleaned up,” he says, but Richard shakes his head.

“Nah, it’s probably time we got up and went about our business. We’re losing the light and I’d like to have a fire going before temperatures drop much further. Gets cold out here at night.”

They drag themselves out of bed and use the upstairs washing room for the most pressing personal hygiene, retrieving their clothes from the floor and bickering over the ownership of two nearly identical pairs of hose garters. Once fully dressed, they make quick work of hanging the curtains and Richard goes outside to finish cutting wood, followed a few minutes later by Thomas, who immediately lights a cigarette but isn’t exactly subtle about what he’s really come for. Richard can’t say he minds it terribly - they’ve already established that they enjoy looking at each other, and Thomas has put on a heavy knit sweater of blue wool that suits him very well.

“You’re very handsome in that,” he tells Thomas, not to be flirtatious but because he means it. He spares a moment to think of his Uncle Hugh. _Wouldn’t he be chuffed if he knew._

“Eyes to the front, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas chastises. “Can’t have you putting that axe in your own leg because you were distracted.”

Richard grins. They are back to normal, then - yet the memory of what happened upstairs lingers. “Well, you are very distracting. Can’t help that.”

“You probably ought to put something thicker on, yourself.”

“I keep warm like this,” Richard says truthfully, putting a new log on the block. “But it’s sweet of you to care.”

Thomas shrugs. “Don’t want you to catch your death. Wouldn’t call that sweet, per se, just human.”

“Right. Of course.” Richard looks up and sees Thomas’s gaze scurrying away, his fingers lifting his cigarette to his mouth for a nonchalant drag.

_There’s more to you than meets the eye, Thomas Barrow. Don’t think I’m not onto you._

He’s just about satisfied with the amount of firewood he’s amassed when Thomas speaks up again.

“There’s a bloody chicken here.”

Richard turns around and to be sure, there’s a little brown chicken that’s wandered onto their property, puttering about as though looking for feed. “Must be one of the neighbours’ that escaped and went for a wander. Better catch it and bring it back, Thomas.”

“Me?” Thomas seems affronted by the suggestion alone. “I’m not chasing a chicken, thank you. It found its way over here, it'll find its way back.”

“There’s foxes in the area. Around here a chicken is a valuable good.” Richard puts the axe away, reckoning they’ve got enough wood to last them till morning. “Right, I’ll do it. But I thought you were supposed to be the sportsman.”

“Anything involving a ball or bat, yeah. Never tried chasing a chicken and don’t intend to start now.”

“Thought you didn’t mind trying new things.” Richard winks, and Thomas makes a face at him.

It takes Richard under half a minute to capture the chicken. He could probably have done it in less time than that, but he doesn’t want to scare the animal more than necessary. He strokes her feathers and tucks her under his arm for warmth. _Sweet little thing._

“See? I couldn’t have done that.” Thomas says. “I’d probably have hurt the poor creature. Frightened it half to death.”

“I think you are capable of far more than you think - whether that concerns chickens or anything else,” Richard tells him, and gets a scowl for his trouble. “Right, I’m going to ask around, find out who she belongs to. Could you get a fire going in the meantime? We probably ought to get started on making dinner when I get back.”

Thomas pouts. Clearly thinks all this an awful lot of trouble for one lost chicken. “Will you be that long?”

“Not too long, I hope, depending on how successful I am. I’ll be back before it’s fully dark.”

“Fine,” Thomas snaps, as he tosses what remains of the cigarette and angrily begins gathering wood into his arms, “I’ll just stay here, then, like a good farmer’s wife, and make a nice cozy fire for you to enjoy when you get back.”

“Thomas…” Richard reaches out and gently takes his arm. “Please, don’t do this.”

“No, it’s not a problem,” Thomas bites at him. “Glad to know my place, by the hearth - feeling incapable and useless.”

“You’re neither of those things. What are you talking about? You _are_ useful - you’re making a fire.”

“A ten-year-old can make a fire. A _scullery maid_ can make a fire.” He drops a piece of wood and kicks at it like it’s done him wrong. It goes flying halfway across the yard. _Impressive_. “Using wood that _you_ cut. And in the meantime you’re off schlepping a damn chicken around the neighbourhood, chatting up the locals like the caring, sociable bloke you are-”

“Whoa, whoa, Thomas.” The outburst takes Richard by surprise. Ruffles his feathers a bit, too. “Didn’t I offer to teach you to cut wood? Ask you to catch the chicken? Both of which you refused, as I recall.”

“I don’t want you to teach me a damn thing,” Thomas bristles. “Oh, you don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me. Explain what you do want.”

“For you to stop being so bloody _perfect_.” Thomas practically spits out the last word. “Makes a bloke feel real small, d’you know that? Like it’s pointless. Won’t ever measure up no matter how hard I try.”

“Thomas,” Richard says softly, cautiously, because he doesn’t want to come off as being patronising, “I promise you, the more time you spend with me, the more you’ll start to see how imperfect I really am.”

“Yeah, well, can’t wait for that to happen finally.” Thomas steps away from him and continues picking up logs. “Go on, off with you. I’ll keep the fort while you’re gone. Just don’t expect me to have dinner on the table when you get back. Peel your own bloody taters - I'm sure you're better at that too."

Richard isn’t loving the idea of walking away before they’ve buried the hatchet, but he knows by now that it’s better to let Thomas have some space when he’s in a mood. So he goes, the chicken still held in the crook of his arm. Thankfully, he only has to knock on two doors to find the owners of the bird gone astray, and he spends about ten minutes making small talk at the door, politely turning down the offer of dinner with the family.

Country hospitality - he can’t deny he’s missed that in London.

When he gets back to the house, the sight of smoke issuing from the chimney makes him smile, and he stops for a moment to take it in. It reminds him of times long gone, when he would come back from a day of playing outside and be greeted by the honking of the geese, his gran waving at him from behind the kitchen window. The window is empty now, but when he gets inside, the sight that welcomes him is of Thomas at the kitchen table, Richard’s grandmother’s clock open in front of him, some of its insides carefully taken apart and spread out on a piece of cloth.

“Found a way to be useful,” Thomas says, looking up at Richard who’s stopped in the doorway. His tone is light and non-confrontational, more _I’ve been a silly boy_ than _never tried chasing a chicken don’t intend to start now_ , and it’s his way of letting Richard know that whatever mood came over him earlier has passed. He picks up a cloth and wipes his hands. “Better to do this with daylight, though - my eyes are not what they were. How’d you fare? You weren’t gone that long. Found who you were looking for, then?”

“Yeah.” Richard nods, clears his throat. He’s still standing in the doorway like a bloody fool, but he can’t seem to get moving. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t wish for this moment to pass just yet. “Yeah, I daresay I did.”


	16. Richard (cont'd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you good people appreciate two sex-starved closeted gay men going at each other in various ways as much as I do because ehhhh that is what you're getting with this story :P
> 
> Shoutout to smithens bc I'm pretty sure we're sharing a brain at this point. Also to athens7 for the prompt (she knows which one)!

“So, er… how much experience do _you_ have at this, exactly?”

Two bachelors preparing and cooking their own supper from scratch was always going to be an interesting affair - even if both men hadn’t spent their entire adult lives plus some years in service. They’d both started out as junior footmen, which meant carrying food rather than preparing it, and while the war had given them _some_ opportunity to hone their skills, true hands-on experience had been virtually nonexistent - at least for Richard. Thomas had clocked some time at a cutting board in recent years, when the dwindling household forced Mrs. Patmore to not only tolerate men in her kitchen but fashion them with aprons and knives to help prepare for grand events like Christmas dinner. He never thought he’d be thankful for it one day, either, but it did give him a leg up on Richard, who gives peeling the potatoes a good shot nonetheless in spite of having Thomas plastered to his back for a lot of it, distracting him with neck kisses as he holds him about the waist.

"Thomas," he sighs as Thomas presses him up against the counter, trailing kisses along his hairline, "don’t be surprised if I end up accidentally amputating my own thumb at this rate." But it is a token protest at best.

In the end they pull together and manage to put a fairly edible if unrefined and somewhat impatiently cooked stew on the table, and once they’ve finished eating and done the washing up, they plunk down on the sofa and stretch their feet out towards the fire, passing what remains of the wine back and forth between them and swigging straight from the bottle. It is all delightfully improper, not how they usually get to act, and Richard can tell from the way Thomas is smiling against his shoulder that he is revelling in it.

“Wouldn’t Mr. Carson have a fit if he knew about this,” Thomas says, as if he were reading Richard’s thoughts.

“I daresay we’ve been doing quite a few things Mr. Carson wouldn’t approve of,” Richard drily remarks, earning himself a scandalised squeak from Thomas followed by muffled laughter, and he grins for having achieved it. “In fact, I think we can do ourselves one better on that score.” He passes Thomas the bottle and bends over towards his feet. They’re considerably warmer than the rest of him, on account of the fire, and so he unlaces his shoes and kicks them off, then proceeds to remove his hose. When he’s done, he glances over his shoulder at Thomas, who is watching him with benign interest, eyes half closed in a contented expression. Seeing that he isn’t going to be stopped, he helps Thomas out of his shoes and hose in the same way, then settles back in beside him. It all feels uncannily easy and natural - Thomas shifting just that little bit closer and Richard’s arm wrapping around his shoulder, loose and comfortable.

It’s lovely.

“Don’t I feel special,” Thomas murmurs, as he sips from the bottle and passes it back to Richard, “being undressed by the hands that dress the King of England… once in a blue moon when Mr. Miller comes down with something.”

“Don’t,” Richard scolds him, but he’s chuckling, as is Thomas. “We’re no valets or butlers here. No one’s servants, but our own men. We can do whatever we like, whenever we like.”

Thomas sighs, and Richard can feel his head nestling into his shoulder a little more heavily. “Strange idea. Been a while since I tried being just Thomas for any stretch of time. Feel like he gets forgotten sometimes, shuffled under the rug. The man I am when I’m not standing to attention, carrying letters, held together by starch and buttons.”

“That’s life in service for you.” Richard lets what Thomas is saying roll around in his mind for a minute. “Hard to keep a sense of own identity sometimes when you spend most of your days blending in, with the wallpaper, the bloke next to you, the bloke next to _him_. Not having an opinion. Being a tiny cog in the belly of the machine. On the rare occasions that I do see the King and he cares to make small talk, you wouldn't believe the verbal gymnastics he does to avoid using my name. He’s quite the athlete.”

“Mmm. I can believe that easily.” Thomas’s voice has dropped into his chest, relaxed and low. “Of course, when you and I get to actually live a life off the clock, we still have to go on acting like different people, don’t we?”

“Sadly, yeah.”

“Not here, though. S’long as we’re alone and the curtains are closed.” But he doesn’t sound too bitter about it, just pensive. Considering. “Get to be ourselves, like you said. Put our feet up, kick back, like ordinary blokes.”

“I like to think that we _are_ ,” Richard says, slow. It’s not often that he allows these words to pass his lips. “Ordinary blokes.”

At this, Thomas lifts his head up to look at him, and Richard meets his gaze. His heart is suddenly in his throat and he doesn’t know why.

“I want that to be true,” Thomas whispers, “so much, Richard, you have no idea.”

“I do, Thomas,” Richard assures him, from the bottom of his heart, “I am right there with you, trust me,” and barely has he finished speaking or Thomas is cupping his cheek and kissing him on the lips, not a kiss of passion or lust per se but of something else, something Richard can’t quite get his finger behind.

It feels wonderful all the same. Not only the kiss but everything - sharing an easy embrace in front of a hissing fire, enjoying this degree of closeness without having to keep one’s ears pricked up, having one’s body poised to spring back into a position that won’t rouse suspicion, won’t _offend_ anyone.

Isn’t it an incredibly sad thing that the world has accepted the idea of man flying as a fairly normal thing before it has two men sharing a cuddle? Richard wants to be hopeful that one day things will be different, but most days he doubts it will happen in their lifetime.

He does not, however, voice these thoughts to Thomas - especially not now.

They once again settle back into their previous positions, staring idly into the fire - at least Richard suspects Thomas is. He finds his own attention diverted, looking in fascination at their bare feet side by side. They likely wear the same size shoes by the looks of it. It is of absolutely no importance, of course, but still a nice idea for some reason.

“I like your feet.”

Thomas snorts softly, clearly incredulous that Richard Ellis - a grown man of thirty-seven-next-June - just uttered those words out loud. But he did and he isn’t going to take them back. On the contrary, he is throwing out a little line here. Thomas could either choose to ignore it, or...

“What’s to like about my feet?”

“Don’t know, just do.” Richard keeps his tone casual, mellow, but he can’t fully suppress his smile.

“Surely you can do better than that.” Thomas appears relaxed, amenable to indulging in some idle banter about his own person. Perhaps it’s because he has a warm meal in his belly, perhaps it’s the fire, perhaps it’s the wine - it doesn’t matter. Richard is happy to take advantage. “They’re just feet. They get me from A to B and that’s it. Do you have some sort of fetish, Mr. Ellis?” He is clearly amused by the thought, blatantly teasing, and Richard laughs.

“I suppose I like the idea that no one but yourself normally gets to see them. Feel quite privileged.”

“Plenty things about me no one else gets to see.”

“Mmm. Your calves, for instance.”

Thomas falls quiet, and Richard waits. This still could go either way, really - Thomas could laugh at him or say something like _are you taking the fucking piss_ or withdraw within himself or any variation of these things - but he is fairly sure that he chose his moment well.

“Yeah, I… I don’t make a habit out of showing my calves to just any bloke, or in general really. Lord Grantham wouldn’t thank me for walking around in my shorts.” He laughs, a little tentatively, a little uncertainly, but coming from Thomas Barrow, it feels like encouragement all the same.

“And such a shame it is too.” Richard makes sure to keep his voice soft, gentle, wanting Thomas to know he is being sincere and isn’t making sport of him. “I’m sure you’d look quite spectacular in them. Better than I would, with my skinny legs.” Thomas makes a sound of protest, but Richard is a step ahead of him, his courage increasing.

“Now as for your thighs...” He feels Thomas holding in a breath next to him. “Sportsman’s thighs, aren’t they. Thick and muscular. Good for the Greek fashion.”

He may have taken a bit of a risk there, but Thomas responds as one would hope, with an appalled noise that trails off into laughter. “Mr. Ellis, is there nothing that embarrasses you?”

For a moment Richard feels strangely exposed - as if Thomas has taken a scalpel and opened him up to lay bare his innards with surgical precision. _Gather round, gather round, let us study the freak_. But when Thomas leans away to look at him, a blush and a smile on his face, that feeling abates and makes way for… something altogether different.

“Thomas, if you want me to stop-”

“Didn’t say that. I asked if anything embarrasses you.”

Richard grins. “Something for you to find out, I suppose.”

“Bloody tease,” Thomas mutters and takes Richard’s hand in his own, pulling it to his thigh and contemplating the sight as their fingers meld together. “It’s my turn now, I think.”

“All right,” Richard says, intrigued.

“I… I like your hands.” It comes out timidly, but also like something Thomas has been sitting on for a while. Like it relieves him to finally say it. “Looking at them, how they get all fidgety when you’re anxious, it’s endearing. I like the way they feel on me. On my face, and my neck, and… everywhere.”

Richard has gone very still. Watching Thomas who is watching their hands on his thigh. Once again, the man has managed to surprise him.

“I like your mouth. Your smile, and that fucking Broad Yorkshire that spills out whenever you open it. Gets me all weak in the knees, I don’t mind telling you. I like when you talk to me, with your clever wisecracks and the lovely things you say to me. About me.” Richard could swear he sees Thomas’s blush deepening. “When we’re… in bed, especially. Encourages me."

“Does it, Thomas?” Richard prompts, gently. Knowing it won’t have been easy for Thomas to admit it. He’d already noticed some of it, of course, but actually being _told_ is… well, a sign of trust, is what it is, and that’s everything.

Thomas nods. “Yes. I like it. Makes me feel good. About myself, and… what we’re doing.”

“I’ll keep doing it, then,” Richard says, his voice lilting up at the end, and Thomas nods again, shyly.

“Please… if you don't mind."

"Of course, Thomas, I can do that. I can do that for you. Don't you-" He falters briefly, not sure whether to proceed, but eventually he does. "Don't you know by now that I want to make you happy?"

“I,” Thomas stutters, and glances at Richard’s face. There’s a helplessness in his gaze. “I-”

“You don’t have to answer. Take it as a statement, not a question.” Richard cups his cheek in his hand, grasps his courage once more. “I want to make you happy, Thomas, if you’ll let me.”

Thomas kisses him, and although he doesn’t reply it feels like an affirmative, a wholehearted _yes_ , and Richard feels his chest fall open the way it did when he walked into the room earlier and saw Thomas working on that clock, _his grandmother’s clock_ , and all of a sudden it had hit him right between the eyes that this was everything he wanted every day for the rest of his life, come hell or high water, he wanted a place to call his own, didn’t matter where or what so long as Thomas lived there too -

\- and there he goes getting ahead of himself again. _Rein it in, Ellis!_

Meanwhile, Thomas hasn’t sat still, quite to the contrary - breathing harder than he was a minute ago, he’s pulled off his sweater and dropped his braces and now he’s tugging at Richard’s, ordering “Off,” because apparently they are doing this _now_ and _right here_ , and Richard tries to pull his thoughts together and catch up, struggling with his shirt and Thomas is having far less trouble with his trousers, pushing him down into the sofa to guide them off him-

“Thomas,” he breathes, dazed, because this is unexpectedly moving fast, but he can’t deny his body is a step ahead of him, “Thomas, oh, _Christ_ -"

He isn't about to complain about the sudden urgency if Thomas keeps touching him like that, rubbing the length of him through his pants. He's filling out at a rapid pace, growing heavier against his stomach by the second. Arching his head back, he lets his legs fall open in submission and feels Thomas take care of his underwear so he ends up lying fully naked. He only looks up when Thomas stands to strip to his skin himself, turning away briefly to put more wood on the fire, shuffling the logs around to let the air get underneath.

Richard finds himself mesmerised, and props himself up on his side to watch. When Thomas turns around and catches him staring, he hesitates - but only for a moment. "Admiring my thighs again?"

"I might be," Richard says, letting his eyes roam freely. "Among other things. You are quite spectacular to look at, Mr. Barrow. Quite a feast for the eyes. And you never let me finish telling you in how many ways."

"You'll have to await your turn." Thomas picks up a blanket and takes it back to the sofa, proof that he's thinking ahead and planning on being here for a while yet.

They get settled in side by side, facing each other, and Richard finds the change in pace suits him well. Thomas drapes one leg over his and kisses him attentively, fingers wandering idly down his chest.

"I like your eyes," he says softly, because apparently they're still doing this and Thomas has taken full control of this round, not that Richard objects, mind, but good God the man has things to _say_. "I like your shoulders. Chest. Your stupidly pretty face."

Richard smirks. " _My st-_ " Finds himself silenced by a finger on his lips. _Ah. Not his turn._

To soften the reprimand, Thomas kisses him. "I really do like your mouth," he sighs when he pulls away, and he might be cheating a bit here but Richard'll let it slide. "The way you grin and your whole face joins in, cheeks and eyes and _everything_ \- like that a lot. Makes me happy."

Richard is starting to feel lightheaded. Thomas has turned the tables on him and no mistake, his words and caressing fingers weaving a spell - and he isn't done yet.

"I like that confident swagger you have when you walk. Like that peacock pose you do. Like how you talk a mile a minute when you're excited. Like how you never seem to finish smoking a single cigarette. Like how fucking good you look swinging an axe. Hate that you let some bloke stroke your hair but like how goddamn honest you are about it. Like how absolutely shit you are at peeling potatoes."

At some point Richard has closed his eyes. Trying to take in everything Thomas is saying, but it's all getting to be a bit much. He has the feeling Thomas could easily keep at this for hours, and this is not how this was supposed to pan out, it was supposed to be about _Thomas-_ "Thomas," he whispers, "I-"

Thomas's fingers have wandered down far enough that they can grasp his cock - and they do, surprisingly gently. Richard jolts all the same, because he’s still achingly hard and had almost completely forgotten about it.

“Like this,” Thomas murmurs, and his voice is dropping to the lower registers again, _God-_ “Like how your cock feels in my hand, in my mouth… How your hair is darker between your legs.”

“My skinny legs,” Richard gasps, grinning, _and he isn’t fishing he swears he isn’t-_

Thomas’s hand on his prick stops moving, punishment he supposes for speaking out of turn. Changing the mood into something less intense, because once Thomas starts talking this way… “I happen to like your skinny legs, Mr. Ellis,” he says, stern. “I bet they’re gonna feel real good wrapped around my waist.”

_Well._

_Fuck._

“Aren’t you a quick learner,” Richard moans, and he doesn’t offer up the slightest resistance as Thomas rolls him on his back and uses his knee to nudge his legs apart, “upstaging me at my own game.”

Thomas just grins and leans down to kiss him, saying pointedly, “Was right, though, wasn’t I - feels pretty damn good, this.” And then he grinds his hips into Richard’s, slow, grasping both their cocks in one hand and he’s right, it feels incredible-

“St-” Richard rocks up, using his legs folded around Thomas's waist for anchorage, and it occurs to him they are fully symmetrical like this and it's nice, God it's nice, there's something about it… "Still not, still not my, _ah-_ "

“Can’t make sense of what you’re saying, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas says, unbearably composed, and he moves his hand, _moves his hand around the both of them_ , “going to need you to speak a little more clearly for me, if you can.”

Blinking, gasping, Richard struggles for some coherency, some clarity of mind. “Still not my turn?”

“No.” Thomas grins and kisses him again, making Richard’s legs tremble and squeeze his waist with a swipe of his thumb. “But I like it when you get impatient. Like it when you’re looking up at me the way you are now. Like it when you’re looking a bit wrecked, frankly, Mr. Ellis. Like it when you’re a bit of a mess for me.”

“God,” Richard groans, “ _please-_ ” He thrusts up again even as he’s saying it. “Want you without the hand, Thomas, will you have me without the hand, please-”

“Like it when you say ‘please’.” Thomas gives in to the request and removes his hand, reaching for his wrists instead and pinning them down on either side of his head. His eyes search Richard’s face. “Like this?”

“Yes.” Richard swallows, tries to work up some saliva for his dry mouth. “Go slow, Thomas. Please. Need it slow, want you for as long as I can. Want to take my time falling to pieces for you.”

“Yeah.” Thomas groans, rolls his hips. They’re balls to balls, cocks trapped between them.

“We can do what we like. Take all the time we like. Just you and me, Thomas.”

“Fuck.” Thomas’s mouth is open and gasping, his hips stuttering as he tries to bring his rhythm down from close to frantic to what Richard is asking for. He seems to have some trouble doing so. _Who knew that /time/ could be an aphrodisiac._

“That’s it,” Richard murmurs when Thomas finally manages to slow his pace, and he feels a shudder running through him at the words. “You’re so good to me, Thomas. So generous. Will you - will you kiss my neck? Please. Leave a mark on me where no one but you and I can see.”

Thomas obeys as promptly as though he’d been waiting for the request, and Richard feels the sting of teeth at the base of his neck, gentle at first and then a little harder. “Oh, fuck,” he sighs, turning his head to the side to offer more of himself, “thank you.”

Thomas groans into his neck and moves his mouth to the opposite side to leave another bite mark on him for good measure, almost symmetrical to the first. “So _generous_ ,” Richard whimpers, shivering at the feeling of Thomas sucking at his collarbone, the firm grasp of his fingers on his wrists and the heady throb of his cock against his belly. “I’m getting there slowly, Thomas. Slowly, plea- oh, please, slowly, now…”

“God, Richard, I’m _trying_.” And he is, he truly is, but Richard can tell Thomas’s movements are starting to lack finesse, becoming erratic as frustration begins seeping in, and while it’s still good for Richard he doesn’t think it is for Thomas, per se. “I… I think I’m gonna need your hand, Richard.”

“You don’t need it, Thomas,” Richard says, gentle. “You can do it.”

“No, I- I don’t think I can.”

Richard leans his head up and kisses him. Kisses his temple, tasting salt on his lips. “Just keep trying a little longer, Thomas. It’ll be so worth it, trust me. You’re going to feel so good.”

Thomas moans and keeps at it, out of desperation more than anything, but his arms are trembling, starting to tire. “Please,” he eventually begs, gasping, “please, Richard, give me your hand, I can’t fucking do it.”

“You can, Thomas, I promise you can.” Richard speaks softly, coaxing, reassuring. His brain is hazy but running on adrenaline and purpose. “I’ll help you get us there. You like it when I talk to you, don’t you?” A slight nod. “Listen to my voice, then. Don’t think of anything else, just listen to me. Can you do that for me?” Another nod. “Yeah, you can, of course you can, because I know how good you can be for me. You like it, don’t you? You like being the best for me.”

“I… I _do_.”

“That’s good, Thomas, that’s excellent. You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” He can feel Thomas moaning into his neck, but at this point he can’t be sure if it’s a reaction to the endearment that just escaped him or something else. “Listening so well, going so slowly for me. I want you to feel just as good as you’re making me feel right now. Just take your time, we’re both getting there, you and me, Thomas, you beautiful man-”

He keeps going like this, stringing an endless, steady stream of praise and encouragement, and eventually it seems to take effect, as Thomas’s thrusting becomes surer, more confident, rhythmical, and he’s panting against Richard’s neck as he seems to be soaking up his every word as though entranced by them. Richard is getting close to the edge, himself, and his legs are starting to cramp up but he barely feels it, hiking them up higher Thomas’s torso. His legs can fall off after this for all he cares.

“When you’re ready,” he tells Thomas, who instantly releases his wrists and leans up with a final physical effort, moaning long and hard between clenched teeth, and Richard’s hands are numb but he lifts them and slides them up Thomas’s chest, grips his shoulder with one and tangles the other into his hair. His prick feels oh so sensitive, almost raw, and whenever they rub together it’s like being electrified. “Beautiful, Thomas,” he croons, as his thighs tremble and he feels himself start to come, and it’s a sense of elation and relief like he hasn’t experienced in a long time, “- done well, sweetheart,” and finally gasping, _“thank you-”_ which may just be the thing that gives Thomas the final push, as he too starts to convulse while Richard is still soaring and it’s just about as as close to perfect as it gets, and Richard pulls him close and cradles him and kisses his wet hair even as Thomas is sucking a third lovemark into his collarbone - this one perhaps out of spite more than anything. Then they collapse into the lumpy sofa, pleasantly sore and a little less pleasantly sticky, but that’ll be dealt with later.

“Can’t remember if I told you,” Thomas finally murmurs several minutes later, head resting comfortably in the curve of Richard’s shoulder, “but I really fucking like this house.”


	17. Thomas

The next morning, Richard isn’t quite himself from the moment they get out of bed.

At first, Thomas brushes it off. They use the washing room together, indulging in some light banter as they stand side by side at the sink to shave and perform various other tasks of personal hygiene, washing their armpits and brushing their teeth. The atmosphere is companionable, as between friends almost, but Thomas finds that his eyes keep being drawn to the stark discolorations on Richard’s neck and collarbone - the passion marks he left on him the night before - and although he tries to be subtle about it, Richard inevitably notices his distraction and smirks at him in the mirror. It doesn’t _quite_ reach his eyes, however, not in the way it usually does. “Proud of your handiwork, are you?”

Thomas scowls at him and takes the toothbrush out of his mouth, leaning down over the sink to spit. “You asked, didn’t you?”

“I asked once. You gave me _three_.” Richard rubs the third and biggest lovemark and grimaces. “This one, though - may have been a bit overzealous there, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas rinses, spits again and wipes his mouth. “Earned that one,” he says with a shrug, unmoved by Richard’s plight. “Anyway, got your revenge when you gave me these.” He turns and presents Richard with his right shoulder so he can inspect the reddened moon-shaped indentations his fingernails had left while he was in his throes. With every twitch of his cock those nails had dug into his shoulder deeper, even breaking the skin in one or two instances. “First blood is yours, Private Ellis.”

Richard eyes the evidence and lifts his fingers to the scratches, tracing them carefully. Then replaces his fingers with his lips, as if to soothe any remaining sting. It is a far more tender reaction than Thomas was expecting, and he is taken aback some by the dullness he sees in Richard’s eyes when he pulls back. “Sorry about these,” Richard says quietly, “got carried away.”

“Wouldn’t mind if you were to get carried away some more,” Thomas says lightly, because why Richard is apologising for this he has no idea, they were only teasing a minute ago, weren’t they? Richard smiles and ducks his head, but he doesn’t counter with a retort of his own and that is strange as well. “Did you sleep well?”

“Slept just fine,” Richard replies. “Enjoyed getting to wake up next to you without young Albert pounding on the door for a change.” He puts his arms into his undershirt and raises them over his head to slip it on, but stops in midair. “I, ah, think I forgot something. I’ll finish dressing in the bedroom, you take your time in here.”

“Everything all right?” Thomas asks, but Richard is already on his way out the room.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” comes the answer, but it lacks conviction and Richard’s usual bounce. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Thomas is the first one down a couple minutes later. First order of business is to clean out the cold ashes from last night’s fire and make a new one, and then he heads into the kitchen to heat some milk for oatmeal and boil water for eggs. He finds an old toaster in one of the cupboards and is about to fire that up when Richard comes down the stairs. “Ah, ready to pull your weight finally?” Thomas teases, reaching out and taking Richard by the waist for a spontaneous kiss. One of the first of the day, actually, they have some catching up to do.

And Richard flinches at the touch.

It seems an uncontrolled response, barely noticeable, but it’s there. Thomas does get his kiss, but it’s a peck, a brief meeting of the lips that does nothing to quell his growing concern that something is _wrong_. But before he can turn to further questioning, Richard has stepped away and turned his attention to the toaster. “Right, let’s see if this old thing still has some life in it.”

The forced smile he gives Thomas tells him that he isn’t imagining it. Something is _different_ , and Thomas has a sinking suspicion that he knows what it might be. Wouldn’t be the first time a bloke went cold on him in the light of morning, scarpering first thing, never to call again. Doesn’t matter if they promised the moon just a few hours earlier, those are just words and Thomas learned long ago he can’t take those to the bank. But would _Richard-_?

_Well, he’s not perfect, is he? Or so he keeps insisting._

Things look up some when they sit down to eat. They chat about various insignificant things and about the chores that need doing today, Richard liberally butters his piece of toast and compliments the eggs, but eats very little of either and only in small bites. Thomas has already helped himself to seconds and thirds when he realises Richard is still on his first piece of toast. He only has to cast his mind back to July to know that this is not normal - Richard had always showed a healthy appetite for Mrs. Patmore’s breakfasts, so either Thomas’s eggs aren’t up to scratch or something else is going on. “Richard,” he says, putting down his knife, “are you quite sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Richard insists, just a little sharply, and that in itself is proof enough that he is far from fine. Still, Thomas has never taken being spoken to in a _tone_ lying down, and his first knee-jerk response is to put his barbs out.

“Oh, all right then - forgive me for caring.” He angrily sets his teeth into a piece of toast and takes a gulp of scalding hot tea, burning his tongue. _Fuck!_

A few moments pass in churlish silence - Thomas is quite a master at the métier, if he does say so himself, not that he _wants_ to be prickly but he’s asked Richard about his strange behaviour _twice_ and he’ll be damned if he attempts it a third time only to get his head bitten off, no thank you - until Richard seems to pull himself together somewhat, taking a bite of toast and passing Thomas the milk for his tea.

“Sorry,” he says, and flashes Thomas a grin that makes him look a lot more like himself - and makes it a lot harder for Thomas to keep his defenses up. “You had to find out one day how moody I am in the morning."

Thomas snorts. "Balances things out a bit, I suppose." But he does accept the milk, and the apology.

"I'll perk up once I've finished my tea, you'll see."

Thomas isn’t fully convinced of what he’s being told, but he realises he can insist all he likes, he isn’t going to get a different story. And Richard does seem to make more of an effort to engage, finishing his breakfast and pouring himself a second cup of tea. But… Thomas can’t quite put his finger on it, other than that there’s a spark missing. Richard’s usually sun-kissed face is pale and Thomas has to repeat himself more than once to make sure Richard has heard him. Morning funk or no, that’s not normal.

Once they’ve finished, they clear the table and do the washing up together. This is not something Thomas would normally enjoy doing, to put it mildly - even though with the way the household is going he won’t be surprised if he’s going to end up washing plates alongside Mrs. Patmore, and won’t they both have a moan about that - but with Richard’s help and company, he doesn’t mind it so much.

“Right, I’m going to head into the yard and do some weeding,” Richard announces as he hangs the tea towel out to dry. “Are we still good for firewood?”

“I daresay we are, thanks to your impressive display of lumberjack skills yesterday,” Thomas says, which makes Richard smile. “Can I help?”

“No, I’ll be all right. I know you want to get started on the clock sooner rather than later.” After a moment’s pause, Richard leans in and kisses him, cupping the back of his neck to hold him close for a long moment. After how this morning has been going so far, it’s a bit of a surprise. “I’ll see you in a bit, yeah? Good luck.”

Thomas takes another minute or two to finish up in the kitchen, wiping down the counter and wondering what Mrs. Patmore would say if she could see him now. He _is_ rather looking forward to having a proper look inside that clock, however, so he cuts things short and takes the apron off its hook to head into the sitting room. But instead of seeing Richard on his knees in the yard as expected, he is greeted by a different sight entirely - Richard bent over in the doorway that leads out to the back, one arm propped against the doorframe and his face hidden in the crook of his elbow.

It's not the pose of a man relaxing, surveying the work that needs doing before getting stuck in. Not in the slightest. It's the pose of a man in _agony._

"Richard, what is wrong?" Throwing the apron over the back of a chair, Thomas crosses the room to Richard's side, while Richard makes an attempt to straighten up, clearly aware he's been caught in an unguarded moment. But he looks stiff and even paler than before, a distant and hollow look in his eyes.

"Nothing," he says weakly, this time surely failing to convince even himself. "There's nothing."

"Like hell there isn't." Thomas reaches out and cautiously touches his arm, remembering how Richard had flinched at his touch earlier. "I do know you a little by now, and you haven't been yourself all morning. Tell me so I can help. Please."

Richard eyes him unhappily, just for a moment, then his gaze skitters away again. "It’s nothing important, just the old injury playing up some. May have gotten carried away showing off my woodcutting skills yesterday. Real clever of me, huh?"

_Oh._

Thomas could have punched himself in the face for sheer stupidity. How could he not have realised-

"Right," he says, firmly. "No weeding for you, then."

"Thomas, it's fine. I already took some pain medication before breakfast, I'm sure that’ll kick in soon-"

"Does it usually?" Thomas asks. "And when it gets this bad on any other day, do you normally carry on like nothing is the matter?"

"I pull myself together and do the work I am expected to do, yeah."

"But they don't have you spend the day crawling about on your knees at Buckingham Palace, do they?" Thomas reaches up and cups his too-pallid face with concern. "Go on - off to bed with you."

Richard shakes his head. "I am not getting back in bed, Thomas."

"Oh yes, you are."

"Am not," Richard says stubbornly, and under any other circumstances Thomas might have smiled. "Am not, and you can't make me."

Thomas can't very well knock him unconscious and carry him upstairs, that's true enough. Diplomacy might get him a lot further. 

"Some rest might do you good, though."

"I guess I'll take rest if it pleases you," Richard says, and now that he is reassured the problem doesn't lie with him Thomas almost enjoys seeing Richard being grouchy for once. "But I came here to be with you, and if you think I'm going to lie abed upstairs while you are going about your day down here, you are mistaken."

"I wouldn't've left you by yourself up there, you silly, ridiculous man," Thomas says as gently as he can. "Of course I would have laid down with you and kept you company, clock and other chores be damned."

"Oh." Richard has the good grace to look sheepish, at least.

"Sounds better?"

"... it does, yeah."

"Well, never you mind. I suppose the sofa suits our needs just as well." Thomas takes Richard by the elbow and this time Richard doesn't protest, following meekly as Thomas guides him to the sofa and gently pushes at his shoulders to sit him down. "Tell me what hurts," he says, sitting down with him and surveying his drawn face, showing lines that aren't normally there.

Richard shrugs, but even that simple movement looks to be painful. "It's spasms," he says. "Come and go. Muscles in that area can't take a lot anymore. I should've known better, really. I’ve lived with this injury for over a decade, don’t know what I was thinking other than to impress you, of course-” He closes his eyes, brow furrowing, and Thomas places his hand flat on his back ever so carefully.

“Lie down, Richard,” he instructs gently, expecting more protests, but Richard seems to have given up all resistance and does as he’s told. Thomas makes quick work of his shoes, removing them the way Richard had done for him the night before, but when he reaches for the blanket, Richard stays his hand. “I’m not _cold_ ,” he almost pouts, and once again Thomas has to suppress a smile. Who would have guessed that Richard Ellis had this side to him? “It may help to keep your back warm.”

“I’m sure it would, but I’m not going to lie here under a blanket like a sick _child_.” He’s saying it as if Thomas couldn’t have offended him more. “I’ll just lie here for a bit until my medication starts working and then I’ll head out and get to work.”

“Fine, Richard, you do that.” Thomas puts the blanket away and grabs a pillow instead to put under Richard’s head. It is accepted, and Thomas brushes Richard’s temple briefly before standing up. “I’m just going to see if I can get a hot water bottle prepared, just in case, all right? I hope that doesn’t bruise your masculinity too much.”

Richard grunts. “A’ight.”

“I’ll be back soon. Call me if you need anything.”

“A’ight.”

Thomas heads into the kitchen to boil water, going through the cupboards to find a clean, soft towel to wrap around the bottle. When he returns to the sitting room about fifteen minutes later, Richard doesn’t seem to have moved at all. “Any better?”

“No.”

“D’you want the bottle?”

“Yeah.” Richard sighs as Thomas gingerly wedges the warm bottle between his back and the back of the sofa. “Thank you. I’m sorry I’m being such a nuisance.”

“You’re not being a nuisance and I don’t mind taking care of you.” Thomas leans down and lays his fingers to Richard’s forehead. “Are you sure you don’t want the blanket?”

“No, I don’t want the blanket. And for Christ’s sake, Thomas, I’m not running a fever.”

Thomas takes his hand away. “You’re grumpy when you’re in pain.”

Richard closes his eyes briefly and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, reaching for Thomas’s hand and pulling it back to his face, kissing it. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I just feel like I cocked things up so badly and ruined everything. I wanted to give you the perfect country holiday and instead you’re stuck caring for a cantankerous, moaning invalid. Hate myself for it.”

“Shush, don’t talk like that.” Thomas brushes his lips with his finger. “Don’t blame yourself. You hurt yourself, that’s all. Don’t worry and let me take care of you until you feel better, all right? Just try to relax, can you do that for me? You won’t help things by being so hard on yourself.”

“Not much to do except lie here and ponder my stupidity while I wait it out,” Richard says, with a self-deprecating little smile, “but thank you.”

“Anything I can do to help take your mind off it?” Thomas moves his hand lower to rest on Richard’s shoulder. “A backrub, would that help?”

“Haven’t a clue. Can’t say anyone at the Palace has ever offered.”

Thomas chuckles, and Richard gives a weary grin. “Well, I’m offering,” Thomas says. “So how about it?”

“I’m not, er… I’m not exactly proud of what it looks like back there.”

“We all have our scars, Mr. Ellis, and I won’t judge you for yours. Or so a man once said to me.” Thomas stands to get the jar of vaseline - they’ve had the providence to keep one upstairs as well as downstairs just in case. “Are you warm enough?” he asks when he returns. “Should I put more wood on first?”

“It’s fine. Best to be economical with the firewood anyway, since I’m not sure when I’ll be back in axe-swinging shape.”

“You’re not swinging any axes today, silly man. If it needs doing, I’ll give it my best shot. Spent enough time watching you do it, after all.”

Thomas gets on the sofa and they negotiate positions, Richard on his stomach with his braces down and his shirts pulled up, Thomas kneeling beside him, surveying the territory and contemplating the task before him. He doesn't exactly have much experience at this, but surely instinct will get him far?

When he opens the jar of vaseline to warm some of the stuff between his fingers, he realises at once that he has a choice before him regarding the glove on his left hand. Hadn’t really thought that through before now.

Looking at Richard, however, he realises it isn't a choice at all. Not a difficult one, at any rate.

"I'm just going to take this off, all right?" He waves his gloved hand near Richard's face. "Going to be in the way otherwise."

"All right," Richard says, indistinct.

"It's probably going to feel a little odd for you, with the scarring," he adds, apologetic, as he flicks the button open and begins pulling the glove off, "but the glove would feel even stranger, so-"

"Don't apologise, Thomas." Richard's voice sounds a little stifled, but that might be because he's face down talking into a pillow. "We’re equal now, aren’t we. And that’s something.”

Thomas nods. They are, and it is. He rubs vaseline between his hands, palms to the tips of his fingers, until they are warm and well-slicked. Only then does he carefully place them on Richard’s lower back, his maimed hand right above the crater of rough scar tissue in Richard’s lower back. It feels like something of a tipping point, this, but not unpleasantly so. Rather the opposite. “I won’t touch it directly, all right?”

“I trust you, Thomas.” It is all Richard says, and it is reassuring, yet somehow intimidating at the same time, to know that this man would offer Thomas his most vulnerable side while he’s in pain and fully rely on him _not_ to cock things up.

Terrifying is one word for it. Overwhelming, another. Perhaps this is what Richard refers to when he says he’s been knocked breathless - perhaps this is what it feels like.

He starts out very carefully, uncertainly still, keeping his touch light as he draws his fingers back and forth, just getting the lay of the land. Richard feels unsurprisingly stiff and tense, the muscles in his back corded like stretched rope and unyielding at first. Thomas needs a minute or two to gather enough courage to do more than just stroking and gentle prodding, pressing with his thumbs on either side of one of those knots he’s found. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

“Good kind of hurt,” Richard mumbles, most of his words swallowed by the pillow, and he turns his head to the side to make sure Thomas can hear him. “Healing hurt, if you know what I mean.”

Thomas nods - he does. “Yeah.” He changes the position of his thumbs and presses again, gently at first and then a little more firmly. He can feel Richard tensing up and then relaxing, an involuntary gasp escaping his throat. “Oh, fuck, Thomas. Do that again, _please_.”

Thomas obeys, encouraged by these responses. There is no strategy to what he’s doing, no science and no pattern, he simply goes by feeling and by ear, because he only has to hear the slightest grunt of pain from Richard not to make the same mistake again and to try something else instead, working the knots until they yield, adjusting pressure when a spot is particularly tender and always keeping on the move, never focusing too much attention anywhere at once. Gradually, little by little, Richard begins to relax more. His shallow breathing evens out and drops from his chest into his stomach, deepening noticeably, he groans and hisses less and falls almost completely quiet, melting into the sofa like a sleepy, purring cat. If he were one, he might’ve rolled over and presented his belly.

Pleased with his success, Thomas expands his territory, rubbing more vaseline between his hands and sliding them underneath Richard’s rumpled shirt to reach his upper back and even shoulders. His fingers are confident by now, smoothing out the knots he finds with ease. Richard gives a low hum of approval and leans up on his elbows, glancing over his shoulder at Thomas, who thinks he knows what he wants. “Off, yeah?” he prompts, and Richard nods, lowering his head to let Thomas guide his shirt and undershirt up and over, at which point Richard takes over and completes the job, tossing both items out of sight and lying down again, arms curled around the pillow.

_Beautiful._

The thought takes Thomas by surprise, even though it probably shouldn’t. For Christ’s sake, he gave Richard a whole damn _list_ yesterday of things about him that are pleasing, why would he be coy about it now in the light of day?

“I like looking at you,” he tells him softly, and it isn’t part of any game this time, it isn’t anything Richard doesn’t already know, but it feels important to say it all the same. He massages his neck, rubs his shoulders, works his thumbs down his spine, between the shoulderblades. He feels loose, pliant and utterly relaxed, which is what this whole exercise was about, and Thomas feels happy, like a warmth filling his chest - proud of himself for having done something worthwhile. Trumps making a fire or boiling eggs by a mile.

He is in no hurry to wrap things up, giving Richard’s shoulders the care they deserve and then slowly making his way down again, revisiting spots that were tender before and lavishing more attention on each, gratified to feel the last traces of tension yielding under his fingers. Richard is quiet, almost entranced it seems, breathing easily and steadily. When Thomas reaches the waistband of his trousers once more, he still doesn’t pull his hands away but covers Richard’s scar with his hand carefully, his right hand, and for just a moment they both look complete and whole. He contemplates the sight, pensive, before replacing his right hand with his left. They are truly equal, or it would be easy to think so were it not for one notable difference - Richard got his scar the honourable way.

“God, that was incredible,” Richard sighs, interrupting these thoughts, “thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Thomas says, lifting his hands away. “I… I hope it helped.”

“Are you doubting it? This is the best I’ve felt all day.” Richard stretches gingerly and slowly pulls himself to his knees. “This was exactly what I needed and I didn’t even know it.”

Thomas looks around for a cloth to wipe his hands on, sitting back to enjoy his triumph while Richard picks up his discarded clothes. He is so chuffed that it actually takes him a moment to realise Richard is making sure to stay turned away from him as he fumbles with the tangled mess that is his undershirt.

As if he’s _hiding_ something.

After everything that happened this morning, Thomas is somewhat familiar with the signs by now.

“Richard,” he says, slowly, softly. “Are you hard?”

The little duck of Richard’s head and the embarrassed silence that follows tell Thomas that he’s guessed right, and he reaches out and pulls Richard to him. “Come here. Why would you hide that, you silly man? What were you going to do, wait for it to go away?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Richard mutters. “Pulling out weeds would’ve achieved it, I’m sure.”

“You’re not pulling out weeds and you’re not hiding these things from me, you hear? I won’t have it, Richard.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Richard says, even as Thomas turns him around on the sofa and guides him back into a supine position. “Things should be more... balanced out.”

“Says who? I’m not keeping a tally, I assure you.” Thomas takes a second to kick his shoes off and crawls forward to kiss Richard on the mouth. “I don’t need something in return for making you feel good, Richard. The act in itself is reward enough.” He smiles at Richard’s exaggerated pout and kisses him again. “So what can I do to help with this situation?” he asks, and it’s as gentle as anything he’s ever said.

Richard blushes, and it’s sweet, _God_ it’s sweet and he is sweet, and Thomas wants to laugh from sheer happiness, what is this man and this house and this freedom doing to him-

“Can I have your mouth?”

Thomas helps him out of his trousers, and underwear, and every last stitch of clothing. It is very unequal, with Thomas still mostly dressed except for his shoes, but Richard doesn’t seem to mind, looking quite exquisite stretched out on the sofa like this in the light of day, with his knees up and his chest rising and falling with every breath, one arm thrown up to support his head.

Sinful, is the word that comes to mind. Like an erotic, forbidden piece of art, created by an admiring eye and a tender hand, it’s an image Thomas will carry around with him for a long time to come.

“So,” Thomas says, looking up from where he is positioned - between Richard’s parted thighs. “I, er, sort of noticed the other night - you seem to like it slow?”

Richard nods, licks his lips. “I do occasionally get in the mood for the alternative, but… generally speaking, yeah.”

Thomas smiles and kisses the inside of his thigh. “I think I can do slow for you.”

This is how he starts - with kisses. To Richard’s stomach, his belly, his hips, his thighs and even the insides of his knees. For once he allows himself that rarest of enjoyments - patience - and keeps at these undemanding ministrations for as long as he can, focusing on Richard rather than on his own needs, and Richard is responding much as he did to the massage, lying back in bliss, breathing deeply and giving absolutely no sign of wanting to hurry things along. And his obvious enjoyment feeding back into Thomas helps, makes it easier to keep a lid on his urgency and brings him into an almost trancelike state of his own.

Eventually Thomas begins alternating these kisses with little bites, little nips merely, a lick here and there, nothing too distracting but still varied enough to keep things interesting. Richard sighs and shifts his legs slightly, offering better access for Thomas’s mouth, so Thomas rewards him with a tender bite to his groin, and from there it’s just a small step to what’s nestled between his legs. He kisses the dark sac, traces the crease running down the middle and the shape of each of the testes with his tongue. Then he picks one to suck on first, before crossing over to the other. This is when Richard first lets a moan rip from his throat, and Thomas commits to the task even more enthusiastically, keeping his hands spread on Richard’s hips as he starts using more of his tongue, tracing the hidden underside and tasting musk and soap and even more faintly, salt. At this point he’s starting to go a little lightheaded and he leans away to let his eyes do the work for a bit and catch his breath. He is dead center between Richard’s legs and there is much to admire here, much to lavish attention on.

When he starts moving again, it is downward. This is territory he hasn’t really explored with any great attention before and he takes his time for it, using only the tip of his tongue at first and then gradually more, lapping at Richard’s perineum with the breadth and length of his tongue. “Ohhh, _god_ ,” groans Richard, and the sound comes from far away, from a long way up. He has lifted his legs, pulled his knees up towards his chest, and Thomas has moved his hands to the backs of his thighs, eventually cupping his buttocks. With his thumbs he spreads him just that little bit, holding him open like that as he softly blows air over him. Richard moans, high and desperate, a sound that makes something twitch low in Thomas’s belly. Encouraged by the response, he dips his head even lower and flicks his tongue at Richard’s rim. Distantly, he hears Richard gasping, and he feels a shudder running through him, so he gives in a bit more and laps at him attentively, just over and away, humming low in his throat as he does it two, three times more before deciding that’s quite enough for now.

“Oh, fuck,” Richard breathes as Thomas comes up again and he drops his legs back to the sofa. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Seemed to like it, though.” Thomas’s voice is unintentionally rough, and he feels Richard shiver.

“Yeah, Thomas, I liked it.”

That much is obvious even now - his prick lies flat alongside his navel, leaking stringy white beads onto his stomach. Thomas now shifts his attention here - a few teasing licks at first, root to ridge and back. He flicks his tongue at the sensitive skin between bollocks and shaft, folds his lips over it, sucks. Richard groans and his cock twitches. His leg threatens to slide off the sofa and Thomas catches it, hooks his elbow behind Richard’s knee and holds him up like this. Richard slides his leg up, his calf over Thomas’s shoulder. One hand is still beneath his head, the other gripping the back of the sofa.

“You can touch my head, you know,” Thomas says as he comes up for a moment and catches Richard’s eye. “You almost never do.”

“Have some not so pleasant experiences with that, myself,” Richard says, adding with a little smile, “but I’ll keep it in mind. I like letting you do your thing, though.”

Thomas files Richard’s remark away for now and continues - kisses, licks along the shaft and occasionally the head, catching the drops of precome on his tongue. He doesn’t love the taste per se but he does love how Richard responds, especially when he holds his eye as he licks him clean and then swallows. It feels as though hours pass in this fashion, even though it’s probably no more than a few minutes, and Thomas is just complimenting himself at how well he seems to be doing _slow_ when Richard finally starts to crack. Arching back where he lies, he groans in want and frustration when Thomas brushes the head of his cock with his lips for the umpteenth time, poking the tip of his tongue at the foreskin. “God, Thomas, _please-_ ”

When Richard says _that_ , Thomas can’t but obey.

“Hold yourself up for me,” he says, meeting Richard’s eye when he looks up, dazed and puzzled. “Lend me your hand, Richard. Guide yourself into my mouth.”

With a groan so low it really shouldn’t be allowed, Richard grasps the base of his cock in his fingers and angles it up. Thomas hovers over him, holding his eye as he opens his mouth and waits for Richard to do as he’s asked. “Jesus Christ,” Richard murmurs as he positions himself, drawing his tip along Thomas’s lower lip. Thomas hums and opens his mouth a little further, flattening his tongue against his bottom teeth. Then, with just a slight tilt of his hips, Richard is in, and Thomas takes over again from there. _Slow_ is his brief and will be until the end, so he sets a calm, undemanding pace, not moving too fast or too hard, not doing anything too complicated, using his tongue for a little pressure here and there but otherwise keeping his mouth soft, very little tension in his lips, and Richard is getting into it, _really_ getting into it, mesmerised by the sight of himself breaching the soft barrier of Thomas's lips, just the head, down to the ridge and then back, and he’s leaning up on his elbows to watch.

“God, you’re amazing at this,” he murmurs, “wish you could see yourself when you do this, enjoying yourself. You are, aren’t you?” Thomas moans and takes more of him by way of an answer. He isn’t going all the way this time, but still far enough to feel him nudge the back of his throat, throb on his tongue. Richard’s calf almost slides off his shoulder again and he feels him adjust, indulging himself by pulling back and pushing in, just the once, then Thomas closes his lips around him and sucks.

“Lovely, Thomas, beautiful,” Richard gasps, and just from that Thomas can sense that he’s close, so he moves back up and makes eye contact once more even though his neck is starting to ache from the effort. He hums around the head and tongues at the ridge at the same time, curls his fingers around Richard’s hipbones, exerting just enough pressure to make him aware he’s being held. He hums harder and Richard’s cock pulses. “ _Beautiful_ , Thomas,” Richard gasps, and then he’s coming and watching himself come with Thomas’s lips around him.

“Can’t believe us,” Thomas says a few minutes later, as they once again find themselves entangled in front of a dying fire. “We have the luxury of a perfectly comfortable bed upstairs, yet we keep ending up desecrating this lumpy old sofa.”

“Ah, you want more variety on that score?” Richard chuckles and pulls him closer, kisses him. “Very well, Mr. Barrow, consider it duly noted.”


	18. Richard

“What are you doing carrying that?”

Richard places the wooden chest - which isn’t very large by any standards - on the table where Thomas is meticulously taking apart his grandmother’s clock and smiles. A different man might find Thomas’s concern patronising, even insulting - earlier he’d practically tackled Richard to the ground when he so much as suspected thoughts of backyard work were rearing their heads again - but Richard was never a very proud man and finds it delightful. Besides, he probably forfeited the right to complain about being treated like a child by acting like one at breakfast. “It’s not heavy.”

“Hmph.” Thomas doesn’t seem fully reassured. “It better not be. How are you feeling now?”

“Careful, Thomas, or I might accuse you of being sweet again.” Thomas scowls, and Richard chuckles. “Anyway, since you asked, I feel quite a bit better than I did earlier this morning. I’ve perked up quite a bit.”

“Funny, that.”

“I know, isn’t it just. You have healing hands, Mr. Barrow. And a very proficient tongue, if I may say so.”

“Careful, Mr. Ellis.” Thomas ducks his head, but not before Richard has seen his blush. “Or I might call you shameless.”

“I feel no shame about enjoying that adventurous tongue of yours, Thomas, that’s true enough.” Richard could keep at this a while, could probably fill hours waxing poetic about what they spent part of the morning doing and about the things it made him feel, physically and emotionally, but he sees Thomas’s shoulders tensing - there really is a puzzling paradox between Thomas in the middle of the act and Thomas afterwards, one surprisingly bold, the other at times surprisingly reserved - and decides to back away from the subject, albeit regretfully. “How are you getting on?”

“Haven’t found anything too concerning, yet.” Thomas raises his eyes briefly, just a flick, before giving his attention to what he’s doing. His hands reaching into the clock come back holding a cog, as delicately as though they were handling a valuable crystal. “Just needs some love and a good clean, preferably by a professional. Worth the investment.”

“You reckon?”

Thomas nods and picks up the cloth he’s using to clean the parts he takes out. “These types of weight-driven clocks have often been converted and fitted with spring mechanisms, but this one is still in the original state. Pretty rare by now to own one that hasn’t been tampered with. Remove these caked-on layers of decades’ worth of dust and grease and soot, and you’ll see engravings appear you never even knew were there. A thing of beauty. Be worth a lot to a collector one day, especially when well-maintained.”

“Wouldn’t my gran be gratified to hear you say that.” Richard smiles. “It was a wedding gift, I think, and she cherished that thing even though my grandfather never cared for it. Thought it was too fancy - not suited to their lifestyle. If he hadn’t passed away first, I’m sure the clock would’ve been sold and the money spent on chicken feed or some new tools.”

“Glad the old lady had a better nose for antiques.” Thomas keeps his head down as he says it, and not for the first time, Richard is struck by the impression that Thomas feels uneasy whenever the topic of conversation veers towards family. His letters had only given him fractions of the puzzle, but anyone who paid attention to everything Thomas said and hinted at - and Richard _did_ \- would still have seen a picture emerging of a strained, virtually nonexistent relationship stemming from childhood abuse. A sad story only too common among men like them, who had often felt the sting of father’s belt in retaliation for bringing down shame and disappointment on their families.

Richard knows he is the rare exception in that regard. His father may not have been overtly affectionate with him when he grew up, but he was never a violent man and it was always mutually understood that as long as Richard did him the one favour of being discreet, they’d have no falling out over the matter. It wasn’t until Richard was older that he’d learned to appreciate his circumstances and see them for how fortunate they were, not in the last place owing to the man whom his Mum affectionately called ‘Hughy’. She kept doing this until the day he died, and he never failed to call her Lizzie in return, just as he had when she still wore braids and played with dolls.

It is probably safe to say that Thomas hasn’t had an Uncle Hugh in his life, and Richard is sorry for it.

“What’s in there?” Thomas asks, meaning the chest.

“I found it in the wardrobe upstairs. Couple of photo albums, old family pictures and the like.” Richard opens the chest and takes out the first album to leaf through. “Mostly studio portraits. I don’t think the Bells - my Mum’s side of the family - are very keen amateur photographers. Country people, you know. But I’m taking it all home to my Mum, she’s bound to know who some of these people are. There might even be some pictures in here of her and Uncle Hugh as children. I know she hasn’t got many, so she’d love that.”

“Could take a look and find out,” Thomas suggests, nodding at the chair opposite him. “That seat’s free.”

“You don’t mind?”

Thomas’s mouth twitches. “Course I don’t mind. I’ll be at this a while. Might as well keep useful while you give your back some rest.”

“Thomas, I told you, I feel a lot better already. You can’t keep me indoors and wadded in cotton forever. I promised Mum-”

“For God’s sake, if the bloody weeds are that important to you, I’ll pull some out myself later.” Thomas sticks out his lower lip and sucks in his cheeks. Richard is almost sure he isn’t aware of how it brings out his cheekbones to an astonishing degree. “Besides, didn’t you say you came here to be with me?”

Richard smiles. “So I did.”

“I believe your intention was to ‘romance the pants off me’, to quote a phrase you used.”

“You remember a lot, Mr. Barrow.”

“I make a habit of remembering the things good-looking blokes say to me, especially when it pertains to promises they probably won’t keep.”

It’s a remark that may have thrown Richard off if Thomas hadn’t been smiling when he said it.

“You’ve known a lot of men like that?”

Thomas raises his eyebrows. “Haven’t you?”

“Touché.” Richard grimaces. “Well, I hope not to be one of them, Thomas, is all I can say.”

“And all _I_ can say is you won’t do much romancing while you’re in the backyard weeding.”

“You don’t know that. I trust in my ability to surprise you - I’ve done it before.” Thomas rolls his eyes, and Richard laughs. It is a rare delight meeting someone who enjoys this back-and-forth as much as he does and is a match for him on that front. “But all right, since you want to be romanced, I suppose I’ll get started by bringing you another cup of tea. And then I’ll do as you suggest and have a look at these photo albums, if you’re sure I won’t distract you.”

“I have news for you, Mr. Ellis - I like being distracted by you.”

_Well then._

Ten minutes later they’re settled in, each with a steaming cup of Earl Grey and Richard leafing through the first of the photo albums with more attention. He doesn’t recognise most of the people pictured, or even every name scrawled in the the margins - which isn’t too surprising considering that both his grandparents had had a multitude of siblings and extended family members, most of whom he had never met - but he does eventually find a portrait of his grandparents on their wedding day, and then it isn’t long before their children appear, baby pictures accompanied by a birth announcement for each, yellowed clippings from long-forgotten newspapers. There are only a handful of pictures all in all, snapshots granting a small insight into his Mum’s childhood and life before she was, well, his Mum.

“Found anything?” Thomas asks. He’s taken a brief pause from his work to light a cigarette and must have seen Richard smiling at the page. Richard holds up the album and shows him. “Elizabeth Margaret. That your Mum, then?”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

Thomas leans back in his chair, smoking thoughtfully, and Richard has to make a conscious effort to look away, smiling discreetly to himself. _Now who’s at risk of getting distracted?_

“You’re close with her, aren’t you?” Thomas asks. His tone is calm, neutral - almost too neutral. “You’re close with your parents.”

“With my Mum more so than with my Dad, but yeah, I reckon I did all right.”

“D’you think your Dad struggles with it some?” Thomas gestures with the hand holding the cigarette. “You being… the way you are?”

“Who’s to say? We don’t talk about it, exactly.”

“Must’ve talked about it at least once.”

“Not even that. Not strictly speaking.” Richard smiles. “I talked about it with my Mum and she said to leave Dad to her, which I gladly did. I’m sure he wasn’t too pleased, but he’s not the confrontational type, so I never heard a word about it from him directly.”

“I envy that,” Thomas says. Once again, it’s more a stating of a fact than anything else, very little emotion on the surface. “Heard plenty words from my old man. All of them, in fact. Hurt more than the beatings most of the time.”

Richard holds his next breath inside his chest for a second before slowly breathing out. “I’ll bet they did.”

“You learn to take the beatings. You don’t learn to let the words roll off your back, at least I never did.”

“Yeah.” Richard finds Thomas’s apathetic tone hard to bear and wants to take his hand, but it’s beyond his reach. He now regrets the table separating them. “Few people do, in my experience.”

“He was a son of a bitch,” Thomas continues, almost frighteningly calmly. “Probably still is, I wouldn’t know. When I was young, I was scared of him. When I got older, and bigger, and he couldn’t throw me around anymore, I just hated him. Was even harder, in a way.”

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” Richard says earnestly, and Thomas shrugs. “And your Mum?”

“Afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.” Thomas tips his head back and exhales a long stream of smoke up into the air, like a powerful locomotive. “So were my sisters. Probably glad I took the heat off them a lot of the time.”

“Can’t blame them for that, I suppose.”

“I don’t. I blame the old man.” He takes the cigarette between his lips and gets back to work. “Anyway, sounds like you were dealt a better hand. Lucky for you.” He sounds more resigned about it than bitter.

“My Dad never beat me or called me names, that much is true. But-” He stops himself. Is this the time to share his own hardship, so negligible compared to what Thomas must have endured?

“But what?” Thomas looks up and prods again, “Richard? But what?”

“But that never stopped me from wondering…” Richard clears his throat. “Before I was born, my Mum lost two children in the womb and two in infancy, two boys. Cot death. All my life, even before I realised who I was and especially after that, I always wondered if my Dad sometimes wished one of my brothers had survived instead of me. If it ever crossed his mind, or perhaps still does now and then.”

Thomas lowers his hands, and for a few moments they just look at each other, no words necessary. Richard is grateful that Thomas doesn’t say anything, that he doesn’t try to reassure him or fill the silence. The unspoken kinship is far more comforting than any words would be. He remembers his tea and takes a sip - a slug, rather, because the drink is far from hot at this point. It may be a strange moment for it, but it does break the tension.

“Any pictures of you in there, you reckon?” Thomas asks, nodding at the albums.

“I doubt it. My Mum’s got all of those. Why?”

“Just… wondering what you were like, as a kid.”

Richard smiles. “Lanky, scrawny and awkward about covers it.” Thomas tosses a cloth at him, and it narrowly misses hitting him full in the face only because he ducks in time. Laughing, he says, “Truly, Thomas, I wasn’t anything special. I didn’t stand out academically and I was so terrible at reading that my teachers actually told my Mum at some point that I was probably slow in the head. The message being that I’d never amount to anything.”

“Proved them wrong there, didn’t you?” Thomas says, and Richard doesn’t want to challenge him on it. “Did the other kids give you any trouble at all?”

“Nah, I did all right. I had one thing going for me, one redeeming quality, and it was my skill for mimicry. My teacher imitations especially made me immensely popular, year after year. Was something of a class clown, I guess you could say. I made it my survival strategy, and it worked. I was left in peace.”

Thomas regards him with a little smile. “What it takes to get by, huh?”

“It suited me. Came to me naturally.”

“I believe you. Saw for myself you’re good at pretending to be other people. Useful skill to have.”

Richard nods slowly. “Useful? Yes.”

_Terrifying, sometimes? Also yes._

Thomas takes a deep drag and stubs out the cigarette. “I’m impressed. Kind of relieved, even. I’d have pegged you for the teacher’s pet, to be honest.”

“Thomas, I was a holy terror from about age seven onward. An obnoxious little shit. I must have driven my poor Mum up the wall at times. She won’t admit it now, but I must have done.”

“Music to my ears, Mr. Ellis. Music to my ears.”

Richard gives him a quick grin. “What about you?”

“Yeah, not too bad in terms of peer acceptance. Had something going for me as well, right? I could throw things, catch things, handle a bat better than most. Turned out that was enough. Could be a bully, too. Hurt them before they hurt you, that sort of thing. That became _my_ strategy.” His hands have stilled, and he glances up at Richard. Something vulnerable, there. “Came easily to me.”

Richard can tell it isn’t easy for Thomas to admit even as little as this, and he weighs his words carefully. “Children can be cruel.”

Thomas snorts. “Children, Mr. Ellis? Try being in your twenties and tripping a crippled man in view of the whole family and staff and a bloody _Duke_ , seeing him fall flat on his face and enjoying it because the bastard took your job. Try being in your thirties and using fear and intimidation to bully a kind woman who wouldn’t harm a fly. Who then turns around and saves your life, not once but twice even. How’s that for humble pie? _People_ are cruel, Richard, and I was cruel to a great many people and I revelled in it a lot of the time. Made me feel powerful.”

“Powerful like the boy felt power _less_.” Richard can see Thomas deflating at that. Like the popping of a balloon at the touch of a needle, just that abrupt and just that stark a difference. “Thomas, what your father did to you… no child should have to live through that.”

Thomas has put his hands down again and is staring at them. They appear to be shaking. “Can we… can we please not talk about this?” he asks softly, and for a moment it’s as though there’s a cold wind blowing in through the window, invading the warm but fragile bubble they’ve created for themselves.

“Your past doesn’t scare me, Thomas,” Richard says gently, because he has the feeling that Thomas already regrets saying as much as he did about his exploits as a younger man and needs to hear it, “but I won’t push you.” He sits up in his chair and cranes his neck to get a glimpse of the outside - it feels like they’ve been sitting inside for too long - the room suddenly feels stifling. “Why don’t we go for a little walk? It looks fine out.”

“A walk?” Thomas doesn’t look much pleased at the idea of leaving their private little domain, potentially meeting other people and having to keep up the appearances they’ve been so happy to shed. “Do we have to?”

“I think some fresh air would do us good. Blows away the cobwebs. Besides, it’s coming on lunchtime soon - there’s a pub in the next village.” He closes the photo album, and as he does this, a single photo falls out and sails to the ground. He picks it up and glances at it out of curiosity before putting it back, but his gaze sticks to the image and he feels his stomach drop a second later, his fingers go numb from the tips down. The photograph almost slips from his grip.

_Oh, dear God._

Thomas, who has gotten to his feet to go wash his hands, picks up on his reaction. “What’s that?”

“It’s Uncle Hugh.” Richard holds out the snapshot with an unsteady hand. “Thomas… look.” Thomas approaches and stands beside Richard’s chair to join him in poring over the image of two men photographed in what appears to be a sunny garden. The men, who look not a day over thirty-five, are dressed casually and look relaxed, sporting broad, genuine grins directed towards the camera. They are standing close together, cheeks nearly touching, and each has an arm tightly wound around the other’s shoulder. Richard can hear Thomas quietly gasping beside him, sensing the significance of what they are looking at. The men’s pose speaks volumes of familiarity and affection, and would to anyone who cared to pay a modicum of attention.

“That’s him,” Richard says, pointing at the slightly taller man on the left. “I never knew him this young, but that’s my uncle.”

“I can see the family resemblance,” Thomas says thoughtfully. His hand comes to rest on Richard’s shoulder as he leans down for a closer look. “You look like him.”

Richard had heard the same thing many times before. From his gran, from his Mum. And of course the irony of discovering he was like his uncle in more ways than one hadn’t been lost on him at the time. But it’s only now, being faced with a photo of his uncle when he was about the same age as Richard is now, that he is truly able to see the resemblance for himself.

It’s... uncanny.

A little unsettling, even.

Thomas’s hand moves away from his shoulder, its weight reappearing on the back of his neck, grounding him somehow. “Who is he?” he asks softly, meaning the other man in the photo. Giving voice to the question that’s on the forefront of Richard’s mind as well.

“I don’t know. I’m racking my brain, but I’ve never seen him before. And Uncle Hugh never mentioned anyone… special, to my knowledge. God, Thomas, this has knocked me a bit, I can’t lie.”

“Is there anything written on the back?” Thomas suggests, and Richard gives him a quick, grateful smile. Christ, he can’t imagine coming across this picture without anyone there to talk to about it. He couldn’t even put into words why this has affected him so deeply that he can’t even apply simple logic.

“Glad _you_ still have your head together, at least.”

He turns the picture over and there it is, in his uncle’s scrawly handwriting: _Johnnie & me, July 1893. _

It is not a lot of information to go on. But it’s better than nothing. Richard turns the photo back around and stares at the men grinning at them from a time long gone. His thoughts are going haywire. Uncle Hugh never mentioned a man named Johnnie, he is sure of it - and here he was thinking they had no secrets between them.

Thomas is still standing very close, his thumb gently rubbing the back of Richard’s neck. Comforting, it feels like, while Richard struggles to pull himself together and get a handle on the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He loses the fight, and turns his face into Thomas’s side, only to have Thomas’s hand cup his head and hold him close, his other hand stroking his hair. Of course, this only has him bawling into Thomas’s shirt harder, surprised by the intensity of what’s welling up inside him and pouring out, unstoppable. He hadn’t wept like this at Uncle Hugh’s funeral - not during the service, not walking behind the coffin with his mother’s hand clutching his arm and not when he spoke a few words at the gravesite.

There had been no one named Johnnie among the guests. Among the cards of condolence. No anonymous onlookers who’d sat in the back of the church or discreetly stood back from the crowd at the cemetery. He would have noticed. Surely he would have _noticed_.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely when it finally ebbs away and he leans up to avoid getting more salty tears and god knows what else into Thomas’s shirt, and he clears his throat to get his normal voice back, slowly regaining control of his breathing.

“Don’t you apologise.” Thomas’s fingers brush his cheeks, and he gets down on his haunches, offering Richard a handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s clean.” He rests his hands on Richard’s thighs as he waits for him to restore some of his dignity, eyes never straying from Richard’s face.

Richard sighs, still somewhat shakily. “I’m sorry,” he says again, trying to muster an apologetic smile. “I wasn’t expecting that to happen.”

“I don’t mind,” Thomas insists, and he reaches for Richard’s hand, the kerchief clutched inside it. “He was important to you.”

It’s a statement more than a question, but Richard nods. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about him?”

Richard hesitates, just for a moment, then nods again. “Yeah. I think I’d like to.”

Thomas gently pries the kerchief from his clenched hand and then slips his own hand into his, lifting it to his mouth and kissing his fingers. Richard watches, breathless, as Thomas completes the task unhurriedly, eyes closed. The whole picture is one that makes his heart ache - in the very best way.

It is at moments like these that he almost can’t contain himself. Almost says something he may come to regret very bitterly.

“You’re lovely,” he whispers instead, but perhaps even that is too much. When worried about saying the wrong thing, sometimes it is best not to say anything at all. But Richard has always struggled with that - with swallowing words that could potentially land him into trouble. It is usually words that do - they’ve saved him, at times, and then at times they’ve almost been his downfall.

Thomas opens his eyes and looks at him, his lips still grazing one of Richard’s knuckles. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem upset, quite to the contrary. He’s smiling.

“Come on,” he says, nuzzling the back of Richard’s hand and turning it to kiss the heel of his thumb. “Let’s get our coats and hats and go for a walk. We both need a breather, I think. And I’d like you to tell me about your uncle, if you’re up to it.”


	19. Richard (cont'd)

Rejoining the normal world takes preparation and they use the hallway at the front of the house for that, wrapping themselves in winter layers and buttoning up their coats with care. While Richard runs a comb through his hair, Thomas doesn't miss the opportunity to tease him for hogging the little wall mirror, only to step in and claim it himself the moment Richard moves to the side. That man is as vain as any he’s ever met, he just doesn’t want to admit it or perhaps isn’t fully aware of it himself. Perhaps he thinks he’s being inconspicuous about it when he really isn’t. Either way, Richard isn’t about to disabuse him of the illusion, not today.

"Allow me?"

Sporting a mock-professional expression, he steps in behind Thomas and fluffs his scarf, turns up his collar with a little flourish. Thomas quirks a cynical eyebrow at him in the mirror, mouth curling up at one of the corners. Having a thought, Richard presses his lips together and knits his own brows in an exaggerated manner. “It’s the latest fashion in London, milord,” he booms, stretching out the final syllable long and low - _miloooooord_ \- in what he likes to think is an almost pitch-perfect imitation of Mr. Carson’s pompously servile tone, and Thomas chokes on scandalised laughter.

“How do you _do_ that?”

Richard grins, pleased with the response. “It’s a gift.”

“Good thing you’re not cocky about it, huh,” Thomas murmurs and he turns around, gaze trailing attentively from Richard’s eyes down to his mouth. His fingers cup Richard’s jaw as he leans in. “Your face is a gift, that’s what. But I’m glad you’re not conceited about _that_ , at least.”

Richard hesitates. Thomas complimenting him on the way he looks never sits entirely well with him, but Richard won’t dwell on the why or deny him the pleasure of saying it. Instead he counters with a somewhat breathless and stammered, “Thomas, you are the most handsome man I’ve ever met,” barely able to finish before Thomas kisses him, softly pressing his mouth up to his. Richard still feels a special flutter every time Thomas does this unprompted, proof that it’s not just him, Thomas is drawn to him just as he is vice versa, Thomas wants this, wants _him_ \- but this time he gets distracted in a way he wasn't expecting and forgets to close his eyes, the flutter in his belly becoming a pulling.

_Oh. Christ._

Thomas clearly senses his distraction and breaks away, a puzzled look on his face. The beginnings of panic just around the edges of his eyes, until he puts two and two together about what just happened. “Jesus,” he says slowly, and Richard looks sheepish. “Did you just… were you _watching_? In the mirror?”

Richard shrugs, lips quirking. “Well, it’s right there. My eye was drawn.”

Thomas glances over his shoulder, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Mulling something over, it seems like. When he turns to face Richard once more, he is smiling faintly, his face betraying a decision made. “Liked what you saw?”

“Very much.” Richard pauses, weighing his thoughts, but in the end his mouth wins, as it usually does. “Makes me wish for a bigger mirror.”

“For shame, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas chokes out, and Richard grins and leans in to kiss him, properly this time, only to find the way blocked by a finger across his lips. “Eyes open,” Thomas orders softly, and Richard suddenly finds he can’t breathe, but he nods.

They’ll never leave the house at this rate, but Richard struggles to give a damn. He raises his eyes to the mirror as Thomas leans back in, pushing slightly at Richard’s chin to turn his head sideways and give him the best view he can as he mouths him tentatively, then takes his lower lip between his with a little more confidence and sucks gently. Richard sighs and almost lets his eyes slide shut, but a little nip from Thomas’s teeth sets him straight.

It is strange to do this with eyes open, but any awkwardness Richard might feel about it is surpassed by what he’s seeing in that fucking mirror, something that’s so new and thrilling he can’t help but stare in awe - the back of Thomas’s head and part of his profile as he takes his time kissing him, and Richard catches teasing glimpses of their mouths moving together, shallow touches of their lips at first before Thomas allows it to escalate into something more. It’s him taking the initiative there too, with a parting of his lips and a flick of his tongue and Richard groans shamefully low at the feeling and it’s _seeing_ it that makes him remember to relax his jaw and he’s being so fucking _passive_ but Thomas hums approvingly and goes for broke as per usual, fingers splayed against Richard’s throat as he treats him to slow, steady movements of his tongue, in and out, back and forth, and the glimpses he’s catching of it in the mirror are _maddening_ and his eyes are starting to burn from the strain of trying to see as much as possible-

In less than a minute flat he’s aching hard again already, and it’s just from standing there watching himself get kissed, nothing else, and Thomas pulling back with a flushed mouth on him, murmuring “I like kissing you, almost as much as I like sucking you off,” isn’t helping _at all_.

“Do you now?”

Thomas nods, studying his handiwork. Richard can see in the mirror that he isn’t looking half as put together as he was three minutes ago. “Liked what you saw then too?” Thomas asks semi-innocently, and Richard grimaces.

“Perhaps a little too much.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow in surprise, trails his eyes down the front of Richard’s heavy winter coat. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Thomas lifts his head, a little proudly almost, like he’s only now becoming aware of the power he wields, and God how Richard loves seeing him like this. His tone matches his expression when he says, “I suppose I could do something about that, Mr. Ellis, but the timing is somewhat, shall we say, unfortunate?”

“I know… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. At least you told me this time.” Thomas cups his face and touches his lips with his thumb, drawing it slowly across. Richard practically whines, _Christ, he doesn’t recognise himself when he’s like this_ , and his eyes flick towards the mirror yet again, watching Thomas caress his lips tenderly, teasing the bottom from the top. “I want you to always tell me.”

“I will.” Richard swallows with some difficulty, blushing at the need he hears in his own voice. “I will.”

After a moment, Thomas lowers his hand and lays his fingers against Richard’s throat, just under his jaw, gazing at him almost thoughtfully. Richard doesn't move, waiting breathlessly, aware his pulse is _racing_ and surely Thomas can feel its rapid cadence under his fingertips-

“Can you wait?” Thomas asks, and although it is not what Richard was hoping for, he nods without hesitation. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Richard rasps, “I can wait, I promise. I can wait for you.” He licks his lips and smiles. “It’ll be sweeter for the waiting, won’t it?”

“That is my intention. I’m not asking you this to be cruel.” Keeping his hand where it is, Thomas leans in and presses his lips to Richard’s jaw on the other side. He sounds almost vulnerable, which could be jarring, but somehow it isn’t. “You know that, right? That I don’t mean to be cruel?”

“Yeah.” Richard closes his eyes as Thomas’s lips brush his throat, opens them again to look. Unable to resist the temptation. “I know that.”

“And you trust me?”

Richard’s answer is emphatic, immediate. “Yes.”

“Think of this, then. When we’re out in public, having lunch, and can’t touch each other or even look at each other like we want to, think of what you saw in the mirror that affected you so much, and I will know just by looking at you where your mind’s at. They can’t take that from us, at least.”

He’s gone defiant now, mutinous, and it changes the mood, but it makes no difference for what’s going on underneath Richard’s heavy layers of clothing. He is _throbbing_. Whether it’s the things Thomas is saying or the thought of sitting across from him at a public house thinking about Thomas’s tongue, he isn’t sure. What he _is_ sure of is that Thomas could ask him to walk to the North Pole and back and he’d probably agree to that too. “All right,” he says, almost keenly, “let’s go.”

Suddenly in a hurry, they quickly put themselves back in order, grab their gloves and finally step outside, into the pale winter sunshine and the fresh air. It does make for a pleasant change, and they set off at rather a brisk pace, not speaking much until they’ve put a fair distance between themselves and the house. Richard notices Thomas looking back over his shoulder a few times, and realises he wants to take his hand already. This is going to be more difficult than he thought.

The eventually fall back into a more leisurely pace, and Richard takes a few deep breaths, not exactly lamenting the loss of his erection. It makes putting one foot in front of the other a lot easier. “It’s about a mile and a half into the next village,” he says, “but I know a shortcut through the fields, if you don’t mind plodding through some rougher and potentially muddy terrain.”

“It’s your expedition, Mr. Ellis - I’m just here to follow your lead.” The remark chafes, but when Richard turns his head he sees Thomas smiling at him in a way that is... far from circumspect.

Something between them has shifted again, Richard senses, and it seems to have coincided with them leaving the house. It’s not that they’re back in public, at least it’s not _only_ that. It happened the day before, too, in the bedroom upstairs and later in the yard. It isn’t unpleasant, in fact it seems to come and go quite organically, but it is a little bewildering, even though Richard is starting to get an inkling-

“I would rather you speak your mind,” he tells Thomas, who shrugs.

“Not exactly wearing the proper shoes for a cross-country hike, are we? I don’t mind muddy shoes, per se, but I do mind wet feet. Had enough of those in the trenches to last me a lifetime.”

“We’ll keep to the road, then, and take the shortcut on the way back. We’ll have a fire to dry ourselves at when we get home, and I promise to rub your feet warm.”

Oh dear Lord, they just can’t seem to turn it off, can they? Richard clenches his jaw and returns to staring straight ahead. Like a man who hadn’t had his cock in another man’s mouth earlier that morning and loved every second of it - hadn’t almost had his eyes roll out of his head watching Thomas’s tongue leisurely fucking his mouth, fingers spread against the side of his neck-

Richard takes another deep breath and tries to think of something else for now. Sheep, cows, the warm meal he hopes to have at The Three Horseshoes later. He does have an appetite, come to think of it. _Hard work and country air make hungry,_ his gran used to say. Although he suspects sex may have something to do with it too.

“You are different here,” Thomas says after a few minutes. They are following the road downhill, open countryside wherever the eye lands. Far away in the distance, a farmer is grazing his flock, his sharp whistles piercing the air as his two collies circle the herd.

Flummoxed by the unprompted observation, Richard turns his gaze away from the sight to look at Thomas. “Different? Different from what?”

“Different from how you were visiting us in July. Different from how you are in London, I imagine.” Thomas squints at him thoughtfully. “You like it here.”

“Certainly I do,” Richard concedes, frowning, “but-”

“I’m just saying it as I see it,” Thomas clarifies, “and what I see is that you’re happy here. Like you’re… more yourself, in a way. It’s more than the not having to pretend for other people’s sake - it’s the country, I think. You love the fucking country, Richard Ellis, or I’ll eat my hat.”

“Doesn’t most everyone?” It sounds like a hopelessly naive question even to Richard’s own ears. “Don’t you?”

Thomas quirks his mouth and lets the silence answer for him. “Don’t get me wrong - it’s starting to grow on me,” he then admits, as if to soften the blow of his honesty. “You, on the other hand - if the Palace gave you your notice tomorrow, you could move out here next month and spend the rest of your days keeping chickens and be perfectly happy. Like your uncle.”

“I-” Richard is taken aback by the turn in the conversation, by being questioned like this - even if amiably - about things he rarely allows his mind to dwell on. Surprised, too, to discover Thomas has been observing him so closely. And while part of him wants to give Thomas the answer he’s expecting to get, the words wither on his tongue at the thought of Uncle Hugh, who _had_ loved it here, except- “I’m not so sure about that, Thomas.”

Unsurprisingly, his response catches Thomas off guard, and his smile flattens. “Oh,” he says, “well, if I got the wrong impression-”

“You’re right, I do love the country,” Richard goes on, because it costs him nothing to admit it, “but if I were to live here, I wouldn’t want to do it alone.”

A deafening silence follows these words, and they have slowed their walking pace significantly without even noticing. Thomas turns his head away and so does Richard, regret at having spoken this openly already closing around his throat like a vise. But it’s too late. _Bet he wishes he hadn’t brought it up now._

Down in the vale, the farmer whistles to his dogs, and Richard takes the excuse to turn his gaze that way again. It’ll be easier to have this conversation when he’s not looking at Thomas’s face and being reminded of how Thomas had sat at his feet earlier and kissed his fingers like it was what his lips were made for. Like he would be content doing nothing else all day if it made Richard feel better. It’s not helpful to think of that now, not at all. Then again, if he hadn’t had that image before his mind’s eye ever since, he might not have had the courage to be truthful just now and caved to the temptation of a convenient lie instead. And lies don’t build better lives.

“It isn’t just the country, you know,” he says softly, hoping he isn’t making a monumental mistake here.

“Don’t, Richard,” Thomas murmurs, but he already sounds resigned to the likelihood that Richard will plunge forward regardless. So he may as well.

“I enjoy your company very much.”

“I know. You’ve said.”

“It bears repeating. And I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn if I say that’s a big part of why I’ve been walking around with a grin a mile wide on my face. I’m happy we get to be together and alone, get to take our shoes off and kiss whenever we want and enjoy each other any way we want. I’ve told you all this already, sparsely and weighing my every word because I don’t want to say anything untoward, but it’s the truth.”

Next to him Thomas is quiet, _emphatically_ quiet, and yeah it was probably a mistake to have this conversation while they’re walking down to the pub, but there it is. Richard Ellis can’t ever shut up even when rationally he knows it’s the only thing that can save him.

“I couldn’t live here by myself because… that was my uncle for the last fifteen years of his life, and it isn’t an example I’d care to follow. Much as I looked up to him, the way he was carried to his gravesite in the end, alone - I can’t have that be me, Thomas.”

“He _wasn’t_ alone,” Thomas protests, more fiercely than Richard had anticipated. “You were there, your Mum, his family. Friends as well, I’m sure. That counts for something.”

“Certainly it does. But me, I have no siblings, Thomas. I am no one’s brother, no one’s uncle. No one’s father or spouse. My parents will be long gone, if the natural order of things is followed.”

Thomas starts patting his pockets for a smoke, sign that he’s getting truly agitated. “For fuck’s sake, this is morbid. Who thinks of these things when they’re thirty-six?”

“ _I_ do, Thomas, and I have for a while. Life moves quickly - I could swear to you the war only ended yesterday and it’s been ten fucking years.” He accepts the offer of a cigarette and uses his own lighter. “One day I’ll be grey and old hopefully and getting ready to meet my maker-”

“Christ, will you stop talking about _dying-_ ”

“- and I’d rather go and meet Him in the knowledge that someone will walk behind the coffin -”

 _“Why?”_ Thomas almost roars, and for a moment it is as though the calm serenity of the countryside is brutally shattered. Thomas immediately brings his voice back down. “Why the fuck do you care so much? It’s not like you’ll actually be there to do a headcount of the people at the service, tick off a list of who’s weeping and who isn’t.”

“Thomas…” Richard lifts his fingers to his forehead and rubs tiredly. “Let’s forget the funeral metaphor, all right? We’ve gone off track here. This isn’t about that.”

“Then what _is_ it about?” Thomas insists, exasperated. “Tell me.”

“It’s about the life I get to live before that day comes, and the person I hope to spend it with. I don’t want my only memory of happiness to be an old photograph tucked away in some album, Thomas, the way it may have been for Uncle Hugh.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know if this Johnnie-”

“I want a partner.” Richard exhales. _There it is, the words are out, nothing to be done now._ “I want to leave service eventually, find a place to call my own, make a life like normal people have.”

“That’s all?” Thomas scathes, and it hurts, but Richard supposes he could have said worse than that.

“Always aimed high, I suppose.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about getting fucking _married-_ ”

The last word is practically spat out.

“Christ, Thomas.” Astonished, Richard stops in his tracks, and after two or three more strides Thomas reluctantly does the same. “What led you to that conclusion?”

Thomas shrugs angrily. “Plenty have done.”

“Well, I won’t. Ever. You know why?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Because of Uncle Hugh, and something he once said to me.”

A car is coming from the direction of the village they’re heading towards - they’ve made good time and the first houses are looming up around the bend. Richard tips his hat and smiles at the driver as the car passes them by. Thomas scowls and smokes. The car came at a convenient time, as it gives them half a minute to cool off and think about what they’ll say next. It occurs to Richard that it isn’t very circumspect for two men who already draw attention to themselves - they’re not exactly dressed like country men - to stand in the middle of the road like a bickering couple having a lovers’ tiff.

“We should keep going,” he says under his breath, tugging at the rim of his hat and glancing down at his feet. He smokes distractedly and without enjoyment. “I’m sorry.” The latter remark bears no relation to the former.

“You apologise too much,” Thomas snipes. He is looking off into the distance, squinting his eyes.

“I upset you.” Richard twists his mouth. “Seem to do that quite a bit, so I say sorry quite a bit.”

“Lots of people have upset me in my life. Not many of ‘em bothered to say sorry. You do things differently than most other people I know, Mr. Ellis.” He takes a drag and turns his gaze on Richard, thoughtful, but not unpleasant. “You are different, not just here but everywhere. You’re like no one I’ve ever met.”

For once, Richard manages to hold himself back from responding with a wisecrack as a mood lightener. Turns out, though, wisecracks are all he has, and so they fall back into step without another word. Fifteen minutes later, they’ve found a table at The Three Horseshoes and placed their orders. They don’t speak much - the pub isn’t very crowded, there are a few regulars sitting at the bar and two men are playing billiards. No one bothers them, but anyone with eyes in their head can see that they’re _not from around here_ and Richard is beginning to wonder if it was such a good idea to come here after all. His spirits only lift when the landlord brings over their meals and they chew the fat for a minute or two. The man is curious, as most pub owners are, and while Richard makes sure not to mention Uncle Hugh - he isn’t particularly keen on hearing what the locals might have to say about any unmarried bachelors living in these parts - he sees no harm in saying he has family ties to the area.

Once they dig in, they realise they are both ravenous, and while Thomas doesn’t comment on the food, he seems to enjoy the simple country fare well enough, which pleases Richard more than it probably should. After they’ve finished, they don’t linger but get up to pay, greeting the men at the billiards table on the way out. One of them takes just a little too much trouble nodding back at them, and when Richard’s gaze crosses his, the man smiles. There is a sense of recognition, even though Richard is sure he’s never seen the man before.

“Do we take the shortcut still?” he asks Thomas when they’re standing outside, and Thomas shrugs. He’ll take it for a yes.

“I think that man was like us,” he says when they’re well out of anybody’s earshot.

"What man?"

“The man at the billiards. Looked a certain way that made me wonder.”

“You could tell just from a split-second look? Yet you claim that after three days at Downton you still weren’t quite sure about me.”

“Stakes were a lot higher then,” Richard says. He is taking a lot of risks today, trying to convince himself he doesn’t care about the outcome. Some things are just getting too heavy sitting on his chest like this. “Besides, you’re very cautious, Mr. Barrow.”

“When I’m not going off with strange men I barely exchanged three words with at the pub.”

Richard chuckles. “Yeah. Fair enough.”

Thomas lights another cigarette, Richard passes this time. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. We’re in the middle of nowhereville, Yorkshire, and the first pub we walk into, there’s a queer man making eyes at Richard fucking Ellis.”

“Thomas, he was making eyes at you too. Probably more so, and I don’t blame him one bit.”

“Don’t be daft, Richard.”

“Don’t be coy, Thomas.”

Thomas huffs indignantly, and Richard finds himself smiling. The walk into the village didn’t turn out the way he would have liked, but he has higher hopes for the return journey.

“You mentioned something your uncle said to you,” Thomas resumes once they’ve left the main road. “What was it?”

Richard gives Thomas a sidelong glance, and gets an earnest, if somewhat guarded look in return. He’s sincere about the asking, then, and Richard takes a breath. “There’s a bit of a story there. Do you want the long or the short answer?”

“I’ve got nothing but time.”

Richard thinks for a moment about where to start. “Well, I told you I talked to my Mum, you remember? About my... otherness.”

“Yeah.”

“I was fourteen. Had my first kiss from a bloke a couple weeks earlier and it’d left me pretty shaken, in the best and the worst way. You know, you’re young and everything is new and you think you’re the first kid in the world to ever be in love. But deep down I knew it wasn’t the normal way, of course. I didn’t know a whole lot about it, but I’d heard the sermons spelling doom and the crude jokes. There had to be something wrong with me, I had to be defective and evil in some way, et cetera. Pretty standard fare for people like us.”

“Mmm.”

“Anyway, I’d been going around moping and brooding for a while when Mum finally sat me down. Asked if there was anything I wanted to talk to her about. I cracked pretty quickly. She’d had her suspicions for a while, she told me after she pried it out of me. Completely knocked me sideways, hearing that, because I had barely started figuring these things out for myself. Wasn’t until later that I realised she was more than qualified to recognise the signs, of course. That day she told me, “You should talk to your Uncle Hugh.” Which I did.”

“Had you known about him before then?”

“It may sound odd, but I don’t think I had, not truly. Growing up, you hear some of the comments people make when they think you’re not listening, most of which you can’t make heads or tails of at that age. I knew he’d never been married, rare for a man who didn’t work in service, but I chalked it up to the fact that he was a bit of a drifter, a jack-of-all-trades who’d had a thousand different jobs. A traditional family didn’t exactly fit in that picture. Finding out the real reason was a shock.”

The path they are following narrows for a bit, and they have to walk single file for a little while, which gives Richard the opportunity to sort his memories. When the path broadens again to the point where they can walk abreast, Thomas waits for him to catch up.

“How’d that conversation go?”

Richard sighs. “Not very well at all. I can’t blame Uncle Hugh - he did his best to explain what it all meant and what I should expect. He told it to me straight, didn’t try to pretty it up. But I was angry. Disgusted at myself, disgusted at him. Threw a bit of a tantrum, ‘s I recall, said some things I bitterly regret even now, though he never held them against me. He told me it was normal to feel that way, and I’d find a way to live with it. I was so fucking scared, Thomas. I saw my whole future go to pieces in front of me.”

Thomas nods slowly. “‘m Somewhat familiar with the feeling,” he mumbles, but he’s agreeing, not challenging.

“Being an only child, I always thought I’d have a large brood myself one day. The fancies of a naive young lad, of course, nothing more. Saw that go up in smoke. I asked my uncle point-blank, _will I end up like you then - no family, no one to love in my life?_ ”

“Fuck,” Thomas mutters.

“I know. Gives me no great pride to think back on, I promise you. But he said something then I’ve never forgotten. He told me I had a choice before me - I could get married one day and have a family if I wanted one more than anything, and sometimes these marriages were even fairly successful. Or I could follow my true inclinations and live a life that would always have to be hidden from the eyes of the world, but at least it would be real. That was the word he used - _real_.”

 _“Not such a hard choice, then,”_ Richard remembers saying, defiant. Relieved, almost. _“If there’s the option of living a normal life, why would anyone choose differently? Who wants to live like a bloody criminal?”_

_“I’m afraid neither option is going to be easy, Richard.” Uncle Hugh put a hand on his shoulder. For a brief second, Richard felt the urge rise up to shake it off - immediately followed by a deep sense of shame. “We have it harder than most regardless of what we choose, that’s the harsh reality we all have to face at some point. But listen to me carefully, now - you don’t have to lead a loveless existence. There /is/ love and happiness for you out there, dear boy, I swear it on everything I hold dear. I can’t lie to you - it’ll be harder to find and even harder to hold on to. But it can be yours if you want it badly enough.”_

“Damn,” Thomas says, shaking his head, “he really didn’t mince words, did he?”

“He was brutally honest. I learned to be grateful for that later. And most of all, he was right. I tried courting a girl when I was fifteen, a pathetic attempt at the ‘normal life’ I thought I wanted. Doomed to fail, of course. I lasted at it about three weeks before breaking it off. She was a lovely girl, the neighbourhood belle all the boys were after, so I knew that wasn’t the problem.”

“Just didn’t have a cock,” Thomas offers, and they both laugh, albeit carefully.

“How delicately you put that, Thomas.” They are already coming up on their little hamlet - ten more minutes and they’ll be home.

“Sounds like quite the romantic soul, your uncle.” Richard merely hums in agreement, his thoughts returning to the photograph and the unknown man in it. What had happened to him? Would he still be alive? Was there even any hope of finding out? “Means you take after him in more than one way.”

Richard looks at Thomas, wondering for a moment if he’s being had, but one glance tells him that’s not the case. “Perhaps so.”

Thomas thinks for a moment and sighs. “Can’t imagine what that’s like, having a - a kindred spirit to talk to at that age, let alone a relation. Can’t imagine having someone without judgment listen and _care_. I never had that. But I’ll tell you what...”

“Hm?”

“I’m really fucking glad you did.”


	20. Thomas

“You’re not going to believe this, Richard.”

“What?”

“Our feathered friend from yesterday is back.”

They both stop in the middle of the yard. Following Thomas’s gaze, Richard starts laughing. A skimpy brown chicken, suspiciously similar to the one Richard captured the day before, is hunkered down at the front of the house, having a nap in the afternoon sunshine.

“Well,” Richard says, still laughing, “quite the little escape artist she is. A veritable Houdini.”

“Seems to like it here,” Thomas says, shrugging. “Maybe we should let her stay this time, just until the morning. I for one wouldn’t mind having a fresh egg with my breakfast.”

“But she’s not ours, Thomas, nor are her eggs.”

“I know, I know - not how things work _in the country_.” Thomas barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “Forgive me for suggesting it.”

“Besides, I’d rather bring her back now than have the neighbours come looking for her later when we’re, ahem… in the middle of something.”

“Such as?”

He is asking in hopes of making Richard blush for a change, a challenge he’s privately decided to undertake, but it looks like he’ll have to bring out heavier artillery than this. Richard only smiles and looks around before answering.

“According to my estimations I owe you at least one orgasm today, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas is quite sure he could learn to love the country if for no other reason than being able to say things like this out in the open without fear of being overheard. “And I owe you - rather, your Mum - a whole and working clock. That takes precedence, Mr. Ellis. Besides, I told you I don’t keep a tally, and you shouldn’t either.”

“I have my plans regardless. But first things first.” Richard steps forward to go get the chicken, but Thomas stops him. “Do you have your watch?” Richard looks confused but nods, opening a few buttons of his coat and reaching inside to take the watch out of his pocket. “Good - now stand back and time me.”

So much for his grand declarations about chicken chasing from the day before, but Thomas decides Richard’s stunned expression is worth his impending humiliation several times over. At least he got to observe how Richard tackled the task, so he knows that staying calm is key to getting it done.

“Hello, little trespasser,” he sweetly croons as he approaches the critter, “are you going to give me a hard time of it?” While he has little hands-on experience with animals, he is bolstered some by the knowledge that Lord Grantham’s dogs have always taken to him quite well. But a chicken is no trained animal, as he is now finding out, and his first few lunges miss their target. He feels absolutely ridiculous, crawling around the yard in pursuit of a clucking little hen, but nothing would be worse than the indignity of giving up with Richard watching, so he doggedly persists at it, grateful that Richard does him the courtesy of refraining from unsolicited advice. When at last he is successful, and manages to grab the bird and fold it against his chest with hardly a feather lost, he turns to Richard to hear the verdict, convinced it must at least have been five minutes. It certainly felt that long.

“Two minutes and nine seconds,” Richard says, looking up from his watch with a wide grin. “Impressive for a first time. We’ll make a country man of you yet, Mr. Barrow.”

Any other man who would have said that to Thomas before today would’ve gotten his head bitten off. But this was less about catching a damn chicken than it was about proving a point, so Thomas just smiles at the compliment - and a broad, genuine smile it is - and wonders when he went so fucking soft.

“Two houses down the road, wasn’t it?”

Richard seems surprised that he is offering to do this too, but that only makes him want to do it more. So he makes his way over to the house in question with the intention of handing over the chicken and beating a hasty retreat, but the friendly woman who answers the door - and to whom he introduces himself using his own name before he can decide otherwise - manages to wrangle a few minutes of small talk out of him and even promises to bring some fresh eggs by next morning as a token of gratitude. Touched by the offer, he can’t find it in him to refuse. When he returns to the house a little later, Richard has been busy as well - there is tea waiting and a fire to warm his feet at, but better still, Richard hasn’t forgotten his offer of a foot rub, and it all amounts to a pretty perfect way to spend twenty idle minutes.

There is work to be done, though, so once he’s finished his tea, he returns to the table to finish cleaning the clock and put it back together. Since he’s found no major defects in the mechanism other than the normal wear and tear of time, he’s fairly sure he’ll at least get it running again for now - a professional will have to do the final buffing up. He lifts the apron over his head and sits down in high hopes of finishing the job in half an hour, forty-five minutes tops.

It becomes clear pretty quickly that he forgot to take one rather crucial element into account.

At first Richard busies himself in the kitchen, washing up and making a bit of noise going through the cupboards. He is whistling again, a sound Thomas hadn’t realised he missed until now. The tensions at breakfast and - albeit to a lesser degree - even their argument on the way to the pub feel oddly distant already, not real almost, like reverberations of events from a different place in time. Things that don’t truly concern them, that were said by other people. Strangers’ words. Thomas can’t dwell on those now - he would rather focus on the task in front of him, the mechanical puzzle he’s putting back together. It is far less complicated, and far easier to navigate than the labyrinth of his own mind.

Richard eventually joins him again and has another rummage through the photo albums, but it only manages to hold his attention for a few minutes this time. He soon places them back in the chest and carries it into the hallway to place by the door so they won’t forget it the next day. Then he returns to the table and sits down - this time, taking the seat next to Thomas instead of the one facing him - seemingly with nothing else to do but watch him work.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

Thomas gives Richard a sidelong glance. The man does enjoy being casual - he’s once again in shirtsleeves and without a tie, one arm over the back of the chair, one leg crossed over the other ankle-to-knee. Not how his Mum taught him to sit at a table, surely.

“Depends on how distracting you’re planning to be,” he says, eyebrows raised, “sitting like that.”

As expected, Richard laughs - and changes absolutely nothing about his posture. “Too American for your taste? Too provocative, perhaps.”

“You look like a man who’s very comfortable with himself, is all I’m saying.”

Richard’s grin makes way for a look of interest. “You think so?”

“Any man who sits like he’s inviting the whole world to look at his crotch can’t be shy.”

“Not the whole world - just the one bloke.” Richard reaches out and softly runs his fingers through Thomas’s hair. “Besides - thought you didn’t mind being distracted by me. Said so this morning.”

“You don’t forget a lot, do you?”

“I pay attention to what you say,” Richard says, answering a question that wasn’t asked and not answering the one that _was_ , and Thomas lets the implications sink in for a moment. Something tells him he should be more unsettled by Richard’s remark than he is - imagine his every word, even the ones spoken in moments of weakness and inattention, remembered and stored in someone else’s brain, potentially to be thrown back into his face when he least expects it - but Richard’s fingers buried in his hair, softly scratching his scalp, are pulling his thoughts in other directions. Directions that have very little to do with clock repair.

“This is very delicate work, Mr. Ellis,” he says, though he can’t bring himself to pull away from Richard’s hand. “If you could give me another fifteen minutes to finish this, I promise you’ll have my undivided attention afterwards.”

“I don’t require your undivided attention for this.” Richard’s hand has come to rest on the back of Thomas’s neck, thumb rubbing gently along the hairline, back and forth. “Only for you to let me give you mine.”

“Fifteen minutes, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas sighs. His hands have already stopped doing anything of use and he rests his elbows on the table as Richard leans in and kisses him below his ear, where his jaw meets his neck. At the same time, he feels nimble fingers loosening the knot of his tie, opening his collar. It all takes seconds - part and parcel of being a valet, he supposes, efficiently undressing a man. The silk of his necktie whispers as it’s slipped from his neck. “Richard… for fuck’s sake, go read a book if you’re bored.”

“Not bored,” Richard murmurs, as he kisses the skin he’s just bared. “Didn’t bring a book, besides.”

“Why ever not? You like reading.” Richard chuckling ruffles his feathers, and he elbows him off. “Did I say something amusing?”

“I didn’t come here to read, Mr. Barrow.” He tries kissing Thomas’s neck again, but Thomas expects it and swats him away. “Reading I can do the whole livelong year.”

“Well, I’m sorry if my hard work interferes with your plans.”

“Doesn’t in the slightest. You look extremely capable with your hands inside of a clock, Thomas, and it’s very attractive. Can’t blame a bloke for paying notice.”

Thomas huffs and gets back to work, relieved not to have Richard’s fingers and soft lips distracting him anymore, but it’s a brief respite only - and seemingly only granted so Richard could contemplate his next move. In less than a minute his mouth is back pressing kisses to the side of Thomas’s neck, attentive and unhurried, doing its level best to distract Thomas from the task. He supposes he could push him away again, but he’s not sure his protestations would make the slightest impression, and quite frankly - he’s not sure he truly wants them to. Being kissed and showered with attention like this drives it home that he hasn’t had the pressure taken off since last night, and he didn’t even realise it until now. He thinks he may have had an erection while he was sucking Richard off that morning - he must have, surely? - but he was focused on other things at the time and it came to nothing. He has no one to blame but himself - he may have had ungallant lovers in the past but Richard isn’t one of them.

“Is this some sort of challenge, Mr. Ellis?” he asks when Richard’s hand reappears, not in his hair this time but on his thigh. “A test to see how committed I am to fixing this clock?”

Richard chuckles and kisses his jaw before pulling back slightly, but his hand remains where it is. “It can be if you want.”

His voice is like molten chocolate, and Thomas can’t tell if it’s that or the weight of his hand near his crotch that makes something twitch in the pit of his belly, his legs fall open just a bit. Either way, he hears himself sighing. “I suppose I do.”

“Well, then,” Richard murmurs as he slips his hand underneath the flap of Thomas’s apron and takes advantage of the widening space between his thighs. Words without meaning yet somehow heavy with implication, and he kisses behind Thomas’s ear almost tenderly and cups him through his trousers, squeezing slowly and appraisingly. He hums as though pleased by what he’s feeling, and Thomas has to stop himself from pressing into that hand. “Let’s find out just how good you are, Mr. Barrow. Let’s find out how much distraction you can take.”

“God,” Thomas mutters, “I shouldn’t encourage you,” only to have Richard laugh and kiss his neck again, just above the collar this time.

“‘s Not so much what I’m hearing that encourages me,” he says pointedly, pressing between Thomas’s legs with the heel of his hand before getting up from his chair. For a brief moment, Thomas thinks he’s been had, Richard was just having a bit of sport for his amusement, and embarrassment and shame well up inside him - but then Richard returns with a pillow he’s quickly fetched from the sofa, dropping it on the floor next to Thomas’s chair and getting down on his knees, and Thomas realises he is more serious about this even than he may have suspected.

Richard, in shirtsleeves and braces, has opened his collar quite liberally - his undershirt is even visible, _and_ those fucking bite marks on his collarbone - and pushed up his sleeves. “Can you turn towards me, just a bit? Don’t stop what you’re doing by any means, but… I don’t much fancy banging my head against the table in the middle of more pleasurable pursuits. Tends to spoil the mood.”

“Seem to know quite a bit about it,” Thomas says spitefully, but he does angle his chair away from the table slightly so Richard can position himself between his legs. It’s a distracting sight, which he ought to have known, and he already wishes he hadn’t accepted this silly challenge. He shifts his arse to the front of his seat so his body is at a less stark angle, creating more space.

“Perfect,” Richard says as he folds the flap of Thomas’s apron to the side and grins up at him from between his legs, sliding his hands up the insides of his thighs. “You are being very cooperative, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas blushes and looks away, feeling caught out for being too eager, but Richard reaches out and cups his chin. Smiling no longer, speaking softly. “Don’t be embarrassed, Thomas. I promise you there’s no need with me, however much I tease. Do you remember the word?”

Thomas nods - he does. “Yeah.”

“All right, then - keep at it.” He smiles and nods at the clock, that damn clock that’s quickly becoming the bane of his existence. Oh, if only his father hadn’t instilled some craftsman’s pride in him when he was still young and impressionable. If only he didn’t have this ambition burning inside of him to prove that he can do it, prove that he can take this thing apart and put it together again and make it better than it was. He picks up the cloth and one of the rudimentary tools he’s been using, while Richard’s ever-dexterous fingers efficiently deal with various layers of fabric until he’s uncovered him, only half hard at this point and withering - it’s the nerves - but Richard doesn’t seem put off in the slightest. Placing one hand open on Thomas’s thigh, steadying, he looks up to check Thomas doesn’t pause as he strokes him with the other, carefully, because his hand is dry. “Good, Thomas,” he murmurs, and _God_ , Thomas is sure he could get hard just from those words alone, “keep at it.”

Thomas does, as best he can, but it gets exponentially harder to keep his hands steady once Richard’s fingers are replaced by his lips encircling his tip, gently pushing back the foreskin to bare the crown and flattening his tongue against the underside. He goes further down, slow and undemanding, bobs his head once, not sucking yet but mostly using his tongue to guide the process of Thomas’s arousal, the steady filling out of his cock. It is a fairly new sensation, being taken into a man’s mouth mostly soft and being gently manipulated and stimulated whilst enveloped, but Richard seems to like it and Thomas has definitely known worse ways to get an erection. When he puts down the cloth, he can’t resist having a look, brushing Richard’s temple with his fingers, but Richard immediately stops at that - doesn’t pull off, but keeps his mouth still, his tongue flaccid and inactive where it lies against his shaft.

_Right. The challenge._

Thomas knows what’s expected of him, but he can’t resist looking just a little longer, running the tips of his fingers through Richard’s hair. Looking at the way his lashes twitch against his cheekbones as he lies there in his lap, _waiting_ , like he probably could for hours if Thomas gave him cause. There’s something a little obscene about it - then again, this whole thing is - but Thomas also finds himself strangely moved for some reason he can’t really put his finger on. He’s never had a man do this before - lying there with his mouth around his cock and looking _blissful_ , like he’d be happy to do nothing else all day.

“You look lovely like this,” he tells him, playing with a short curl of hair behind Richard’s ear. “I’ll have you know I’ll be thinking of this whenever I go near a fucking clock when I’m back at Downton, and probably get an erection every single time without fail.” He wishes he was exaggerating but he really isn’t. Great - just what he needs when Lady Mary is already harping on his every perceived mistake when the main problem, really, is simply that he _isn’t bloody Carson._

At this, Richard does pull off. “Good,” he says, voice deep and hoarse. He’s unexpectedly earnest about it, reverent almost. “I want to be with you always.”

“Already are,” Thomas replies, touching the place near his midriff where usually the fob would be, and Richard slowly lifts his head to look up at him, eyes dark and searching. He can look at Thomas with such intensity, that man, and always has done, but Thomas suddenly gets the feeling that whatever Richard might say next is better saved for another moment.

“I’ll keep at it, then?” he suggests, smiling a little, like he actually needs the approval, and Richard nods. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Yeah… yeah,” he stammers, a bit off-guard, like this isn’t a game he initiated himself. “You just keep at it.”

Thomas duly gets back to work like nothing has happened, putting the clock back together with as much attention and care as he can muster given the circumstances, but something has undeniably shifted and he thinks Richard knows it too. As long as he needs his two hands on the task, Richard continues as before, slowly moving his head up and down as he works his mouth on him, never going down too far or being too demanding - but whenever he can spare one, he lets it wander down to touch Richard’s hair, or caress his neck or even trace his collarbone so Richard is forced to stop and wait, and Thomas finds he likes it, likes the feeling of Richard’s mouth around him even when it’s doing nothing at all.

At first Richard takes the frequent role reversals in stride, but Thomas experiments with timing and the third or fourth time he has to stop just as he’s poised with his lips around the tip of Thomas’s cock about to move down he moans in frustration at having the tables turned around on him like this. For a second Thomas just watches him in awe, the twitch of his brows and the flutter of his eyelashes as he sits there and waits for Thomas to stop caressing his hair. It’s an exhilarating moment, and Thomas can’t resist pushing at his forehead ever so slightly to angle his face up towards him. “Look at me.”

After a moment, Richard does, albeit with some difficulty. He manages it because he only has the head of Thomas’s cock in his mouth, and Thomas bites his lip as they gaze at one another, tracing Richard’s jaw with his thumb. “God, I - I could look at you like this forever.” Richard briefly closes his eyes and sighs, a sound from deep inside his chest. “Just like this, with your lips around me, hungering for the rest of my cock.” Thomas blushes at these words leaving his mouth, but Richard moans like it’s everything he ever yearned to hear and drags his eyes open once more, shifting his hands restlessly on Thomas’s thighs as he waits to be given free rein.

It is then that Thomas realises he better hurry on up and finish, and their standoff becomes a race as he puts the final gears in and bolts up the side panel with shaking hands, hoping the bloody thing will actually _work_ once they get it up on the wall, but that’ll be a concern for later because as soon as he puts his tools down and leans back in his chair, gasping “Bloody hell - there, it’s done,” Richard abandons any last vestiges of restraint he may still have been holding onto. Pulling impatiently at the fabrics still clinging to Thomas’s hips, and with Thomas’s help, he manages to free his rump so Thomas’s bare arse is on the chair and his cock is fully exposed, at least in theory.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters as he watches Richard commit to the task anew, hands spreading his thighs with minimal pressure while he sinks down between his legs further than he’s done before now, not all the way down but close. His throat feels tight, the throbbing vein in his temple betraying effort. “Easy, Richard,” Thomas warns, “easy, now, breathe-”

Richard takes a shaky breath through his nose and pulls up, shooting a quick glance up at Thomas when he reaches the tip and swirling his tongue around. “Fuck, yes,” Thomas moans, slipping his fingers into Richard’s hair without thinking and following the movement as he goes down on him again, this time almost burying his nose in Thomas’s pubic hair and moaning as he reaches his limit. “Easy,” Thomas gasps. “Don’t rush, Richard, no need to rush, take your ti- _ahhh, dear God_.” He can feel Richard relaxing his throat as he stays down and then take even more and it’s the deepest he’s ever been encased in Richard’s mouth and his fingers claw in Richard’s hair and scrape against his scalp-

“Shit, sorry.” He pulls his hand away, guilty, remembering only now what Richard had said that morning - he hadn’t given any details about the bad experiences he’d mentioned, but Thomas can use his imagination there, and yet he’s gone and grabbed a handful of his hair in a moment like this. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t fucking care,” growls Richard, who’s pulled off, voice rough and pitched sinfully low, and Thomas’s gaze is drawn to the gossamer-thin line of saliva between the tip of his cock and Richard’s mouth, but he is only given a second to admire this fragile connection, then Richard swallows him down once more, groaning deep inside his chest as he does, and his throat accomodates Thomas’s girth almost easily now as he moves all the way down, comes back up, bobs a few times while tongueing at him, sucking around the head. He’s generous, like he’s generous in everything he does, and watching him like this is almost more than Thomas can take. His cock is unbearably hard, flushed and wet and the sight turns him on more than anything and he can feel heat gathering, his balls pulling tight.

It’s then that he realises one of Richard’s hands is no longer on his thigh but moving inside his own trousers, and rather frantically at that. Tension in his arm and shoulder. Thomas groans. “Fuck - are you touching yourself?” Richard gives a slight nod. “Don’t recall giving you my permission, Mr. Ellis - but I’ll let it slide this time.” Richard whines and sucks around his cock almost desperately, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do - like he wants to fucking _die_ like this - and Thomas tosses his head back and grips Richard’s shoulder, feeling the rhythmic roll and bunch of his muscles as he pleasures himself and it’s too much -

“Fuck, gonna come-”

It’s in part a warning, a gallant _just-in-case_ , but Richard only stills as he feels Thomas’s cock start to pulse and flattens his tongue against him, patiently taking what he gives. Thomas gasps and groans with every convulsion and leans up at the last second to memorise what Richard looks like in this moment, and he’s glad he did. “God, look at you,” he murmurs, because once again he can’t help himself, and runs fingers through Richard’s hair while Richard whimpers and sighs, head heavy on Thomas’s thigh. “Did you- did you come?” Richard gives a slight shake. He seems loath to break the connection, even though Thomas’s cock is already softening inside his mouth and so sensitive that Thomas would only want to move very cautiously at this point, fearing teeth. It’s odd but kind of nice at the same time, and he continues stroking Richard’s hair until he’s gone completely flaccid. “Richard, are you all right?” he gently asks, and here Richard finally stirs, releasing Thomas’s prick - a pathetic, shriveled thing now - from his mouth and curling his free arm around Thomas’s waist.

“‘m Fine.” His hand stuffed down the front of his trousers starts moving again, but there is no urgency in it anymore. It feels like an afterthought, not something his heart is truly into. Thomas doesn’t like seeing that. He likes seeing Richard touch himself, but not when the look on his face is one of concentration and frustration rather than bliss - like this is nothing more than a job that needs doing.

“D’you want anything? My hand or mouth? Tell me.” Richard shakes his head and mumbles something incomprehensible into Thomas’s thigh. “What’s that, Richard? I can’t hear you.”

Richard moans and presses several wet, open-mouthed kisses to Thomas’s thigh before lifting his head. “I don’t know. I feel silly.”

“Well, you are. A very silly man, as we’ve established.” Thomas smiles and cups his face. “I want to make you feel good, Richard. Tell me how I can do that.”

“I feel empty.” It comes out a rasp, and verily, it looks like Richard might be blushing. His hand inside his trousers moves faster. “I miss your cock in my mouth.”

Thomas could swear he feels a twinge in his lower belly at these words, but nothing comes of it, of course. Still, the notion stirs something - makes him proud. “Well, unfortunately it is out of commission, and will be for a while.” Richard nods regretfully, and on impulse, Thomas leans down to kiss him, getting a desperate moan out of him as he gives him his tongue as a substitute. It is eagerly accepted, and this gives him an idea.

“Perhaps I can fulfil you in other ways,” he murmurs as he pulls away, answering Richard’s puzzled look by lifting his hand and placing the tips of his fingers against his mouth. Heart beating fast, he raises his brows, asking a question he sees answered in Richard’s widening eyes before he even nods.

_“Please.”_

Hoping his instincts haven’t led him astray, Thomas slips two fingers - the first and the middle - into Richard’s mouth, past the first knuckles. Richard moans low and presses his tongue into Thomas’s fingers. Thomas pulls back out slowly, watching, holding his breath, then goes back in again, up to the second knuckles, and gets an even stronger response this time. “Is this what you need, then?” he breathes, looking intently into Richard’s eyes, and Richard responds with a whimper and a nod. His left arm remains draped around Thomas’s waist, the other moving at a slower, steadier pace than before. Almost trancelike, his attention fully focused on Thomas’s fingers slowly thrusting in and out of his mouth. It’s beautiful, Thomas thinks - Richard is beautiful like this, trusting and receptive.

“You have a very willing mouth, Mr. Ellis - can I trust you not to bite me?” Richard nods emphatically. Nodding, shaking his head and moaning are his only means of communication at the moment, a bit of a change for a man of eloquence. Thomas slides his fingers back in, presses down on Richard’s tongue experimentally. This is different, he realises - before, it was Richard setting the pace, deciding what he wanted and could handle. Now, he is putting that responsibility in Thomas’s hands. “Pinch me if you want me to stop - if it gets too much,” he tells Richard, keeping his fingers still for a moment, “I don’t want to hurt you.” Richard nods again, eyes open as he makes the promise.

Thomas continues gently thrusting in and out with two fingers, reeling from the sight, careful so as not to cross the line between pleasurable and uncomfortable. Buried up the second knuckles, he presses down and feels some resistance, Richard’s jaw locking up. “Relax for me, Richard,” he coaxes, and Richard moans and tries to obey, closing his eyes as he looks completely overwhelmed by the intensity of what is happening. “Look at me,” Thomas softly urges, prodding at Richard’s tongue and trying to create more space to comfortably work with, and Richard whimpers long and hard but opens his eyes, blinking to regain focus as he tilts his head back and finds Thomas’s gaze. “There you are. Keep looking at me, darling. Can you do that, can you try?”

Something almost like a sob issues from Richard’s throat and he nods yet again. Thomas bites his lip, wondering for a moment if he’s going to experience some miraculous resurrection and get hard again just from the way Richard is staring at him right now, big-eyed and wanting, silently begging for his fingers. He resumes his thrusting, keeping a calm pace and carefully watching Richard’s face for clues, and it’s only now that he realises he’s been using his left hand this whole time. Switching now might spoil the mood, however, and Richard doesn’t seem to notice or mind the fabric of the glove rubbing his chin and lips, so Thomas keeps going - more important things to focus on.

“Such a willing mouth,” he repeats, murmuring, as he is able to go deeper, burying himself up to the last knuckles and keeping still. “You take my fingers so well, darling, just like you took my cock. Not quite the same thing, though, is it? Two fingers don’t fill you as nicely.” Richard blinks and gives a tiny shake of his head. “I could try with three, if you think you can take it.” This time, a clear nod, so Thomas pulls out and adds a third finger, joining them into a triangle.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters as he goes in for the first time, and if he hadn’t come mere minutes ago he would be raging hard by now, “look at you - look at you opening up to me. You needed this, didn’t you?” He doesn’t expect a nod this time and doesn’t get one - Richard is far away mentally, focused solely on keeping his jaw relaxed and on whatever Thomas’s fingers spearing his mouth are making him feel. At one point, for all Thomas’s care, Richard does gag, and Thomas pulls out immediately, startled and concerned. “Shit, sorry - are you all right?” But once Richard recovers his breath he simply opens his mouth again and waits for Thomas to put his fingers back in, which he does after a brief hesitation.

“Careful, Richard,” he cautions as Richard swallows around his fingers and takes them deeper, “slowly, darling, don’t rush. Take your time. That’s how you like it, isn’t it - slow...” He reaches down with his free hand and touches the arm Richard is using to pleasure himself, feeling the way he is twisting his wrist. It is inevitable that he is going to dirty his clothes, Thomas supposes, but it can’t be helped. He brings his attention back to Richard’s face and finds himself wholly captured by the look of rapture that’s taken over his features. He is flushed, too - a deep blush of arousal covering his face and neck. It’s obscene and it’s beautiful.

“God, but you’re a spectacle like this,” Thomas chokes out. “I can’t take my eyes off you.” He presses down on Richard’s tongue as firmly as he dares and strokes his arm, not to take over or even assist but to let him know he’s there with him. That he’s not doing it alone. He can sense he’s on the cusp or very close to it, his pace stuttering as he seems to be struggling for control, eyes desperately meeting Thomas’s.

“Can’t hold back much longer, can you?” he asks, and Richard shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Thomas cups his cheek. “It’s all right,” he says, lowering his hand to lay his palm against the side of Richard’s neck, drawing his thumb across the jut of his Adam’s apple. He can feel Richard holding his breath, eyes screwed shut and a low whine caught in his throat. _Waiting_. 

Thomas exhales slowly, finding Richard’s pulse point with his thumb and smiling slightly. “Whenever you’re ready, then,” he says, and barely are the words out or Richard’s whine becomes something between a muffled cry and a sob and he slumps forward, like his knees give out under him, and he rides out his orgasm with his head in Thomas’s lap, moaning deliriously and shaking with the force of it while Thomas caresses his hair and the nape of his neck, damp with perspiration.

He isn’t quite sure what just happened - but the one emotion overriding all others is awe. He is in awe of this man and what he just let Thomas do.

When it’s over - when the peak has passed and Richard just lies heavily in his lap - he cautiously pulls his fingers out of Richard’s mouth, feeling Richard sigh as he does, and continues touching him, without stop, his hair and his neck and his shoulders. It feels… important, somehow, to do this, even if Richard isn’t responding, be it verbally or physically.

“Are you all right?” he finally asks, when a few minutes have passed in this fashion and Richard still hasn’t stirred. He strokes the side of his face to get his attention, tries lifting his chin up when that doesn’t work. “Hey,” he says, a little more insistently, worry seeping in, “Richard, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Richard says to his relief. His voice is low and scratchy, but he’s smiling. “Fuck, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just making sure. You didn’t seem quite… there, for a minute.”

“Just very happy right now, Thomas,” Richard murmurs. His head feels heavy between Thomas’s hands and he can barely keep his eyes open. “Don’t know how else to put it. Very very happy.”

He does look it, with that woozy grin on his face, but some of Thomas’s concern lingers - he’s seen happy men and he’s seen euphoric men before, but to see a chatty bloke like Richard reduced to this is a little unsettling. He hasn’t had a man pleasure himself with his fingers stuck down his throat before, either. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Richard shakes his head. “No.”

“You would tell me if I did?”

“Yes. But you didn’t.”

“Do you need a sip of water?”

At this, Richard opens his eyes, something vaguely resembling a scowl crossing his face. “I feel I should be more annoyed with you for treating me like a child. You’re lucky I can’t find the strength right now to tell you off.”

Thomas laughs, and after a moment Richard starts chuckling too, and then they kiss and Thomas can’t remember if he initiated it or Richard did, but it barely matters. When they pull apart, Richard is already looking more like himself - his eyes are clearer, more focused. “Listen, er-” He bites his lip, the beginnings of a blush crawling red across his cheeks. “Whatever happened just now, it - I hope it didn’t - I hope you’re not too… shocked?”

“I’m not some déb in her first season, Mr. Ellis.” Thomas smiles and kisses him gently, stroking his cheeks with both thumbs. “Would it surprise you to know I’m actually feeling quite humbled?” Richard ducks his head in a rare moment of embarrassment, but Thomas uses his hands to tilt his face back up to him, knowing now is not the time to tease him for being bashful. “I mean it. For you to let me do that - takes courage. And trust.”

Richard gives a slight nod. “Not sure about the former, but… yeah. I trust you, Thomas.”

Thomas sighs. “I can’t lie. That scares me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll inevitably let you down one day.”

“You couldn’t. Ever.”

Thomas sighs again. This time he is the one looking away, and Richard doesn’t hesitate to do what he did - cups his chin and turns his face back towards him. “Thomas -”

With a shake of his head, Thomas gently peels his hand away from his chin and kisses it.

_Not now. Not the time for that._

“Come on,” he says, with a self-deprecating look at his state of undress. Richard looks marginally more put together as far as clothing, but he also just came into his underwear, so there’s that. “Let’s both get cleaned up first and then find out if I actually earned any bragging rights for repairing this damn clock.”


	21. Thomas (cont'd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning for this chapter: All. The. Mushy.
> 
> I hope everyone in quarantine/isolation is doing okay and this chapter brings some comfort/distraction. If it does, please - a comment, however small, would ~~restore my sanity~~ make my day :') 
> 
> Stay safe!

The clock works. Mounted on the wall over the fireplace, it strikes the hour for what Richard tells him has to be the first time in at least fifteen years and likely even longer.

“I had forgotten that sound,” he muses aloud after the final chime has faded, the words coming out somewhat muffled. He and Thomas are laid out along the length of the sofa, Richard’s head tucked snugly against Thomas’s chest so the hair on top of his head tickles Thomas’s chin and Thomas can smell whiffs of the product he uses to slick it into shape. Country man or no, Richard Ellis’s hair shall not go untamed. “Reminds me of my youth.”

Thomas hums in response, more pleased with himself and his achievement than he would care to admit. They’ve both freshened up and changed since their activities earlier, and Thomas now concludes that perhaps he oughtn’t have bothered wearing the knit sweater - the fire and Richard’s body are keeping him warm enough - but he is far too comfortable to stir, except to occasionally lift his hand and caress Richard’s hair. His body heavy and his mind thick and drowsy, he is _almost_ perfectly content. “I sort of wish now that I hadn’t fixed it, though. In a way.”

Richard lifts his head and looks at him, puzzled. The pattern of Thomas’s sweater has left an imprint on his right cheek, which Thomas somehow finds incredibly endearing. “Why?”

Thomas smiles wistfully. Strokes Richard’s smooshed cheek. “Would rather not be reminded of time passing, is all.” Richard’s face falls, and Thomas instantly regrets not keeping his dumb mouth in check. “I mean… shit, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I’m glad of it. Glad to know you feel the same.” Richard already has a smile on his face again, albeit a melancholy one. “Two days is a cruelly short time, isn’t it?”

“It’s - yeah,” Thomas agrees quietly, and Richard kisses him, soft, because it’s all they can do to stall the relentless march of time or at the very least mute it for a short while. Nothing more comes of it, of course, and it doesn’t have to. Thomas is learning to enjoy these moments in their own right, more than he probably ever imagined he could. When Richard starts pulling away, he grabs his collar to make it clear he doesn’t approve of this retreat and slowly lets his fingers wander down his throat as he indulges himself a little longer. Richard sighs at the touch and opens his mouth a fraction, letting the front of his tongue nudge Thomas’s.

“You’re making this far too easy,” Thomas murmurs, fingers idling at the base of Richard’s neck. “You’re lucky I’m not easily scandalised, Mr. Ellis.”

“How so?”

“Sitting with your legs apart, walking around with your shirt unbuttoned down to here. Showing your body.” He moves his fingers along Richard’s collarbone, noting with sadness that the bite marks may be starting to fade already. “I like seeing that kind of confidence in a man. It’s very attractive.”

Richard objects, “I wouldn’t exactly call it confidence -”

“Well, surely it must be, and why wouldn’t you be a little cocky? You’re a looker, Richard, and you’re not afraid of showing it, that much is obvious. Nothing wrong with that. So long as you tone it down a couple notches in the presence of other men, mind you.”

Ignoring this tongue-in-cheek caveat, Richard bites his lip thoughtfully. “I don’t quite know how to respond to that, Thomas. I dress appropriately in public. As for when we’re alone - I’m not consciously trying to make a display of myself, I’m just comfortable here. Comfortable around you. There isn’t such a need to keep up appearances, and so I let it all go a bit.”

“So you do. I’m actually surprised you went to the trouble of shaving this morning.”

“Would’ve blended in more at the pub if we hadn’t, huh.” Richard smiles.

“Mmm. Probably.”

Richard gives him a brief peck on the lips and settles back down, head propped up on his hand. “Speaking of which - I keep thinking about that man at the billiards.” He laughs at the way Thomas pulls up an eyebrow and pokes him teasingly. “Not like that! God, Thomas -”

Chagrined by his own childish response and surfacing insecurity, Thomas grimaces and rubs his shoulder ostentatiously. “Well, forgive me for minding.”

“Nothing to forgive, I assure you.” Richard grins, undeterred by Thomas’s cattiness. “I must admit - I kind of like it when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. Not of that bloke, at any rate. I didn’t get a good look at him, but as far as I saw -”

“He couldn’t hold a candle to you, Thomas,” Richard states matter-of-factly, but clearly amused. “He was at least ten years older than us, besides. No, I just would’ve liked to have a chat with the bloke, that’s all. If he’s local, he may have talked to my uncle on occasion. Maybe even knew him to some degree. And I’d be curious about his life here.”

“Why?”

“I’m curious about most people I meet.” Richard quirks his mouth. “Was curious about you, and not for obvious reasons alone. I just happened to get _more_ interested as time went on. But… I guess I’m always intrigued as to how other men in our situation get by. Bachelors, I mean. My uncle lived here for years - there must have been talk about him, but he never mentioned having any trouble.” He pauses and smiles a little sadly. “But I suppose we have established that he didn’t tell me everything.”

Thomas kisses the tip of his finger and presses it lightly to the small frown that’s appeared between Richard’s brows - a comforting gesture, however small. “What would he’ve made of all this, you reckon?” Richard tilts his head questioningly, a silent request to elaborate. “What I mean by ‘all this’ is, er… you and me. Staying in his house, fucking on his sofa.”

“Truthfully, I think he would’ve been delighted. He would’ve been chuffed to meet you, cooked us a proper dinner and served his best wine. He was at his best when entertaining.” Richard smiles. “Anyway, not to quibble, but… technically, we haven’t fucked on this sofa. Or on any surface in this house, for that matter.”

On a different day, with a different person, Thomas might have given a thorny response. As it is, he barely has the energy to muster a disapproving scowl - something he attributes to the lingering effects of what had been nothing short of an earth-shattering orgasm earlier, courtesy of Richard’s mouth sucking eagerly around his cock. “Well, I’m sorry if I’m leaving you dissatisfied in any way.”

“Hey - don’t think I’m complaining.” Chuckling, Richard leans forward to kiss away the pout Thomas put on mostly for show. “I’m enjoying myself immensely - if that wasn’t obvious from the way I damn near passed out in your lap earlier.”

Thomas harrumphs in agreement and gratification, laying his open palm against the side of Richard’s face as he dwells for a moment on that very pleasant memory, one of a growing supply he’s hoarding for the weeks and months to come. He is happy and sleepy and could easily close his eyes for a nap right now, but God, he loves looking at that face so much. It seems a waste not to enjoy it while he can.

“Besides,” Richard adds with a grin, as he settles back into his previous position, one hand on Thomas’s chest, “there is still time.”

“Blimey, you’re insatiable,” Thomas sighs, but he smirks to let Richard know he doesn’t exactly disapprove. “Do you find me just that irresistible, or have you always been like this?”

“I consider myself pretty normal, at least in that regard,” Richard replies without batting an eye. “And yes, Thomas, ‘irresistible’ is one epithet I would use to describe you, though others come to mind as well. Rest easy, I have a refractory period like any other man, but that doesn’t mean I can’t let my mind wander, does it?”

Thomas smiles and finds that his fingers are back in Richard’s hair, idly carding through his forelock. Richard is very particular about his hair, but Thomas seems to have carte blanche to mess with it and he isn’t above taking full advantage of this privilege. “I think I might know where it’s wandering to, specifically.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-mmm. Something we’ve already talked about once or twice, if I’m not mistaken.”

Richard smiles. “You remember.”

“Not the kind of thing I’m like to forget,” Thomas says drily, and Richard laughs.

He asks, “What about you? Any requests I should know about or take into account?” He seems to sense Thomas’s hesitation and takes his hand, which he then brings to his mouth and kisses. “If you want to tell me.”

“There _is_ something,” Thomas admits. “I’m just - I’d rather tell you another time, if that’s all right. Not really the moment for it.”

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.”

Thomas makes a face. Fully realising that he’s being contrary, he says, “You’re not even going to pry a little bit?”

“Oh, I’m intrigued, don’t get me wrong. But I can control my impulses.” Thomas lifts an eyebrow and Richard grins. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Thomas agrees, brushing Richard’s lips with the pads of his fingers. He makes sure to use his left hand and smiles at Richard’s slight blush. “Not always, I’m glad to say, Mr. Ellis. Not always so in control of yourself as you like to appear.”

Richard kisses his fingers, holding his gaze as he does. Unexpectedly, he says, “You never call me Dick.”

“Do many people?”

“Not many, no. But some do. Some have done.”

“Other men you’ve slept with?” Barely are the words out or Thomas wants to bite his tongue in half. If he was going for a casual tone there, he utterly failed at it. And Richard, of course, looks gleeful and does an equally bad job at hiding it.

“Some of them. I don’t mind that you don’t, to be clear. I was merely curious as to the reason.”

“Like Richard better, I suppose - does that count?” Thomas pulls up his shoulders in something resembling a shrug. “Force of habit, too. Mr. Carson was always adamantly against the use of nicknames be it up- or downstairs.” The realisation gives him pause, as it always does when he catches himself doing things a certain way _because Mr. Carson_. They are about as different as two people can be, and yet - it can’t be denied that his former mentor-sometimes-tormentor did teach him a thing or two of actual value. As did the bastard calling himself his father.

_Damn._

“No one ever call you Tom, then?”

“Christ,” Thomas grunts, “no. Not since I wore knickerbockers and playing with a spinning top was my idea of a good time.”

“I don’t assume you’ll let me call you that, then.”

Thomas glares at Richard, who grins. “You assume correct. Bloody hell, if you think for a second I’d want to share a name with that jumped-up class traitor Branson -”

“Who seems like a nice enough bloke.”

Thomas scoffs. “He was barely tolerable as a chauffeur with a big mouth and even bigger ideas. But hearing him rail against the aristocracy and the English oppressor was at least somewhat amusing, for the hypocrisy of it if nothing else. Until he grew too big for his breeches and set his lowly chauffeur’s cap at the Lady Sybil.”

“Hmm. The cheek of it.” Richard takes Thomas’s hand, slowly threading his fingers through his. “Still, you and I know a thing or two about forbidden attraction, don’t we? Shouldn’t we of all people try to withhold judgment on that score?”

Thomas feels his prickles go up at that. “Richard, if you’re trying to suggest Tom Branson’s improper crush on a Lord’s daughter is in any way comparable to what you and I have to deal with _every fucking day of our lives_ -”

“Of course not.”

“Tom Branson was never thrown in _jail_ for ogling one of the Crawley daughters -”

“Lord Grantham would have liked to do worse to him than that, I’ll wager,” Richard drily states, and Thomas chuckles in spite of himself.

“You better believe he almost did. The man has a temper on him. Branson only escaped with his life because the women intervened. Care to venture a guess as to what His Lordship did next? Offered Branson money. A fucking bribe, to walk away from his daughter. Told him to name his price, even.”

“That must’ve gone over well, with a socialist.” Richard shakes his head incredulously. “And today he has a seat at the table as the manager of the estate.”

“Don’t fucking remind me.” A smoke wouldn’t be unwelcome, Thomas realises, but he decides it’s not worth getting up for. “Anyway, next time _you_ are offered a large sum of money or a promotion for living your truth, come find me and then we’ll talk. Until then, I’ll judge Tom Branson all I like.”

“And his daughter?”

Thomas catches himself smiling. “Perfect little angel, what of her?”

After a moment’s silence, Richard stirs, pulling his knees up under him and straddling Thomas’s waist, slowly and deliberately. Guides one of Thomas’s arms up over his head and when Thomas allows it, does the same with the other, gazing down at him with an attentive, fond look that sets Thomas’s heart alight, warmth spreading through his chest. “You are a man of many contrasts, Mr. Barrow, and you have utterly enchanted me. Still enchant me _more_ every day, as a matter of fact.”

Thomas is quickly getting to be overwhelmed. This is not how the man he thought himself to be usually acts, lying supine between a man’s legs, completely comfortable in his state of relaxation and surrender, being told he is _enchanting_. And not for the first time, even. “You have said that before.” His throat is dry - he licks his lips. “Breathless, you said. I left you breathless.”

“And still do, Thomas. Better believe that.” Richard bends forward at the waist and kisses him, slowly, with attention. Thomas goes completely limp and gives himself over to the leisurely press of Richard’s mouth, all conscious thought evacuating his mind for a few blissful moments and _fuck_ , it feels good. It feels good to have nothing to focus on except the sensation of being kissed, the way his body - with the added weight of Richard on top of him - sinks into the sofa, the way even his breathing seems to keep pace with Richard’s. He curls and uncurls his fingers, sighs against Richard’s mouth and feels himself grow even heavier. Fuck, this is heaven. This is what heaven must be like, being warm and comfortable and carefree and _sheltered_ and kissed like he’s worthy and time isn’t real.

“You’re fucking good at that,” he murmurs when Richard eventually pulls away, and he drags his eyes open - slowly, so slowly. “Haven’t been kissed like this since… perhaps ever.”

“Haven’t felt like this ever,” Richard breathes, gazing down at him intently, and Thomas has to close his eyes again to shut out that fond expression, just for a moment, so as not to feel overcome. When he opens them again, Richard’s demeanour is different, and he tilts his head. “You’re not - very used to this, are you?” He isn’t saying it out of mockery, Thomas knows that, but his face grows warm all the same.

“Yeah... my romantic life has been a wreck, big fucking surprise,” he quips bitterly. “You should know by now I’m a mess and a half, Richard. No need to rub it in.”

“Whoa, Thomas, that’s not what I was trying to do at all. I only - my mouth gets away from me sometimes. You can tell me to shut up when it does, you wouldn’t be the first and I won’t be offended.”

“That’s just it - I don’t _want_ you to shut up,” Thomas bristles. That blissful feeling from before is well and truly gone, he is getting hot under the collar and wants more than anything to take his sweater off to give himself some air. “I just can’t stand being fucking patronised, Richard. I told you that. I told you not to do that.” He can feel himself getting upset, the sting of angry tears at his eyes even, and he curses himself for being so fucking _touchy_.

“I’m sorry.” Richard slowly releases Thomas’s arms but doesn’t move away, scrutinising him with an earnest expression Thomas can’t bear. He turns his head away, but Richard takes his chin between his fingers. “Thomas.”

“Don’t, Richard -”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said. It’s fine. I’m just being -”

“I’m sorry.”

_“Stop fucking saying you’re sorry.”_

“Look at me, Thomas. Please, sweetheart.”

With a soft gasp, Thomas obeys. Stares at Richard, who is regarding him with a faint, yet affectionate smile. Reassuring him that what he just said was entirely deliberate.

“I -” Thomas stammers, “I -”

“Maybe your romantic life has been a wreck.” Richard’s fingers release Thomas’s chin and briefly brush his lips before pulling away altogether. “God knows mine hasn’t exactly been the stuff of songs and novels, either. But it wasn’t my intention to rub it in or make you feel…”

“Really fucking small?”

Grimacing slightly, Richard nods. “Yeah. That wasn’t my intention, I promise you.”

“All right, I believe you. Penitence unnecessary. Damn.” He reaches for Richard’s hand and tugs, a shy invitation to come closer and pick things up where they left off.

Richard smiles and strokes his cheek with his forefinger. “You may just throttle me for this, but can I say one more thing?”

“Oh, God.” Thomas sighs. “Go ahead.”

“Can I - do you mind when I call you certain things? Endearments, like I did just now?”

“Did you hear me raise any objections when you did it last night?”

“No.” Richard chuckles. “But those were, ah, special circumstances.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Thomas flushes at the memory. “Fuck, help me get this off, will you?” He plucks at the hem of his sweater and Richard grabs it with both hands, pulling it up along his torso and easing it over his head carefully. When Thomas reemerges, Richard takes advantage by stealing a kiss, just a peck, and smoothes down his hair, then sits back to let Thomas take care of the rest.

“Christ, that’s better. I was starting to feel like a roasted turkey.” He lies back down and folds one arm beneath his head, lifting his other hand to resume stroking Richard’s hair. “Anyway, if memory serves, I had a, er, slip of the tongue myself earlier today.”

“Three,” Richard says, and grins somewhat sheepishly when Thomas raises his eyebrows. “And again - special circumstances. Not appreciated any less for it, but - I guess what I’m asking is… how would you feel about doing it other times, too? So it wouldn’t be a slip of the tongue but… more of a habit, maybe? Or something that could become one in the future.”

_In the future._

Thomas exhales slowly and closes his eyes, trying not to let those three words overwhelm him all at once. _How,_ he asks himself. _How is it that some men just take and take and take, and then there’s this one who seems intent on only giving, so bloody considerate and thoughtful and maybe-not-perfect-but-awfully-close, how did Thomas Barrow of all people find this rare gem among the pebbles, how ever will he manage to hold on to it, how-_

“Yeah, I suppose we could,” he says, much more nonchalantly than the hammering of his heart allows. “Be kinda nice, being someone’s sweetheart.” An understatement if ever there was one. “Not sure the word fits me, though.”

“Oh yes, I know how you feel about being called sweet,” Richard teases, and he kisses Thomas right then and they end up losing themselves in it for a bit, pressed front to front in a close embrace and Thomas revels in it, revels in the feeling of Richard’s weight resting on him, covering him as they kiss leisurely and with languid enjoyment, no distractions and nothing to interrupt them. Richard isn’t a bulky man by any stretch of the imagination, in fact his shirts and jackets generally seem to sit around his frame rather too loosely, but he has a lean, wiry strength to him that excites Thomas to his core, emotionally more than physically even. What’s it going to feel like having that body pinned underneath him, arching up to take every thrust of his cock-

He does wonder.

“So fucking good at that,” he reiterates with a sigh when Richard finally pulls away to gaze at him. Once again he is having trouble keeping his eyes open. “You spoil me, Mr. Ellis.”

“It’s not a hardship.” Richard observes him for a moment. “You know you can take a nap, if you want.” Thomas shakes his head sleepily. “Sure? You look like you’re about to conk out.”

“No nap,” Thomas says, as insistently as he can manage in this state. “I’ll catch up when I’m back in Downton.”

“If the Crawleys let you.” Richard’s hand settles on Thomas’s shoulder, his thumb drawing circles. “When do they expect you tomorrow?”

“Before supper. But I don’t resume my duties upstairs until the next morning.”

Richard nods, but seems to sense that now is not the time to talk about the Crawleys or anything relating to the Abbey. “I’m not too heavy, am I? D’you want me to get off you?”

By way of an answer, Thomas parts his legs further and crosses them behind Richard’s calves. “Stop fussing, Mr. Ellis,” he admonishes him, and Richard laughs.

“I was thinking… If you dislike sweetheart as an endearment, I’m sure I could put my creativity to work and find alternatives more to your taste,” he says, with a twinkle in his eye that gives Thomas pause.

“I didn’t say I disliked it,” Thomas sighs, “and I have a feeling I’m going to regret encouraging you, but what might those alternatives be?”

“What do you think of ‘honeycomb’?” Richard suggests without missing a beat, and Thomas knows he really ought to nip this in the bud before it goes any further.

“Also implies sweetness, though, doesn’t it?”

“Cinnamon, then,” Richard says. “Something a little spicier.”

“Makes me sneeze.” Thomas wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think so.”

“That’s all right, cabbage.” Richard smiles beatifically, and Thomas can’t help but chortle. “I’m not giving up that easily, pumpkin.”

“All right, enough with the food already -”

But Richard is only just getting started. With a grin that grows wider by the second he leans up and starts showering Thomas’s face with kisses. “You’re the vinegar on my chips, Thomas… Tommy-bear.”

Thomas’s appalled squeak is cut off by Richard’s mouth covering his, and Richard couldn’t have chosen a better strategy, as it takes a good while for Thomas to find it in himself to pull away. “Stop, Richard,” he says, choking on laughter, “you’ve proved your point.”

“Are you sure? There’s plenty more where that came from,” Richard tilts his head, “my sweet coconut.”

“Oh my God, _shut up_ -”

“Turtle-dove.”

“Richard, I swear to God…” He punches Richard’s arm in retaliation and Richard laughs, rubbing the sore spot. “If those are my options, I’ll take sweetheart any day. And thank you for taking this so seriously.” He is smiling as he says it, though, and Richard can see that too. “You silly man.”

“I _am_ silly.” Still chuckling, Richard takes Thomas’s face between his hands and kisses him. “Silly because you make me, Thomas. Silly like the child I haven’t been in ages.”

“Oh, it’s my fault now? You’re saying _I_ am inspiring this idiotic behaviour?”

“I am saying you make me very happy,” Richard says, low and fond and surprisingly earnest, and Thomas goes still at that, very very still, because he can’t possibly be hearing that right, Richard can’t possibly mean _him_ when he says those things- “You do, Thomas.” Richard kisses him tenderly. “Like no lover ever has.”

Thomas feels a pleasant little shudder pass through him. “Lover,” he murmurs, tasting the word, and Richard wouldn’t be Richard if he didn’t immediately cotton on to Thomas’s reaction.

“That’s right,” he says, and kisses Thomas, who whines and rubs his calf along Richard’s. “You are an excellent lover, Mr. Barrow - generous and considerate, and I’m a very lucky bloke indeed.”

_An excellent lover._

“Fuck - I hope you mean that,” Thomas whispers, covering Richard's mouth when he leans in to kiss him. "Richard, you better not be pulling my leg right now.”

“I’m not.” Richard shakes his head, gently peels Thomas’s hand away from his mouth. A fervent look in his eyes. “I’m not, Thomas, honest. I wouldn’t tease you about this, I promise.” He seems almost upset at the thought that Thomas might not believe him, so Thomas kisses him, reassuring.

“Yeah, I - I haven’t exactly got complaints, either,” he says truthfully, “in case you were wondering.”

“I admit I was.”

“Well, you can rest easy on that score. You are -”

_A fucking god to me and no mistake._

Richard tilts his head and waits a moment before curiously prompting, “I’m what?”

Thomas blushes, convinced the words he’s ruminating on will come out the wrong way entirely, as is usually the case with him. But he can’t back out now, not with Richard looking at him like that, starved for any word of affection Thomas can bear to utter. And God, being starved for affection is something Thomas is more than intimately familiar with.

“You’re everything I ever wished for in a lover.” As expected, the words feel odd and unfamiliar leaving his mouth, but he sees Richard’s face break open in a wide, brilliant smile, and in spite of his own discomfort - God, it feels good. It feels good to be able to put that kind of smile on someone’s face. To give that kind of unadulterated _joy_. “And more, even.”

 _More than I probably deserve._ But he doesn’t let that thought escape his mouth.

Richard whispers, “Dearest Thomas,” before taking his face between his hands and kissing him breathless, and Thomas reciprocates with everything he has, barely able to absorb those two words as something that could possibly apply to him. _Dearest Thomas._

There is only so much happiness the heart can take, and Thomas has learned to be careful with his - he’s only got the one, and it’s a damaged old thing already. But truth be told, it is getting harder and harder to be cautious, to keep his guard up, and Richard, with the lovely things he is saying, is chipping away at his defenses.

“My God, Richard,” he says, laughing, when he is finally granted a respite - a chance to catch his breath. “If I had known you’d respond like that I would’ve said it sooner.”

“Nothing wrong with your timing, Thomas,” Richard says softly. “I would rather you say these things when you’re well and truly ready than rush into them and regret it later.”

Thomas nods thoughtfully. Regret - he is intimately familiar with that too, has a whole bloody list of things he looks back on with varying degrees of regret. He can only hope, going forward, that the way he keeps flapping his mouth and baring his innermost soul to this man isn’t going to end up on that list.

Meanwhile, the fire appears to be slowly going out. Richard has been glancing at it periodically, clearly feeling responsible for keeping it going since Thomas is hardly in a position to. “Probably ought to get up soon and put more wood on, huh?”

“Not for my sake. I’m perfectly toasty.” Thomas smiles. “But for your own comfort, perhaps. I know how you feel about being covered with a blanket.”

Richard rolls his eyes at him good-naturedly. “Will you at least let me go out into the yard later and cut more wood? I feel a lot better than I did this morning - and I don’t think our supply will last us through the evening.”

“We could always go to bed early,” Thomas says, blasé, and revels in the way Richard’s mouth falls open just a bit.

“Mr. Barrow,” he says slowly, eyes glinting, “you shock me.”

Thomas smiles and slides his fingers into Richard’s hair at the back of his scalp, tugging slightly. “Do I, kitten?”

It is meant as a jest - a little poke to ruffle Richard’s feathers in retaliation for his tomfoolery earlier and hopefully make him laugh. What he definitely wasn’t expecting was for Richard to grow a nice shade of aubergine, from his neck right to the tips of his ears.

“Mr. Ellis, are you blushing?”

“No,” Richard says, and blushes even harder.

Oh, he’s just struck gold here.

“Do you like it?” Thomas is grinning so hard his face may just split in two. “You _do_. You do like it, don’t you?”

Richard tries to look stern and disapproving, but fails miserably at it. “And what of it?”

“Oh, I’m not about to judge a man’s idiosyncrasies, I assure you. Just - good to know about them, is all.”

“Christ,” Richard mutters, and Thomas laughs, heartfelt and carefree, straight from his belly. It feels good. Like almost everything feels good when he’s with Richard.

"Will you purr for me, kitten?" The sound Richard chokes out at that - part squeak of indignation, part whine - is better than any reaction he could have hoped for, and he winds his fingers around Richard’s braces and tugs him closer, lowering his voice for full effect. “Don’t answer - I’m looking forward to taking you up to bed later and finding out for myself, but yeah - I have a feeling you will.”


	22. Richard

For supper, they share the leftovers of the stew from the day before, reheated and supplemented with bread. Letting the dish rest overnight has actually improved the taste, and Richard suggests they open another bottle of wine to accompany it, but Thomas declines, just as he had declined Richard’s offer of driving them back to the pub for dinner.

“It’s an extravagance, Richard,” he’d said when Richard suggested it earlier. “We're simple blokes, we’ll make do with what we’ve got.”

Richard hadn’t insisted. He’d made the offer on an impulse, but truth be told, spending their last evening together in public, where their every move and look might be subject to scrutiny and speculation, didn’t much appeal to him either. Far better to stay in and break bread together in privacy, knees and stockinged feet occasionally meeting under the table as they scrape the pot clean.

“If you fancy a drink, though, don’t deny yourself on my account,” Thomas tells him. He tears off a crust of bread and drags it around his plate before helping himself to seconds. Smirking, “I’d definitely indulge if I didn’t fear putting myself to sleep with the stuff. I’m already knackered enough that just one glass might hit me like a hammer. I’m getting on, you know.”

Richard grins, something churning deep in his belly at the lingering look Thomas gives him, brimming with warmth and playful intent. It’s a look he’s come to treasure, all the more so because he is aware Thomas doesn't often allow people to see this side of him. This privilege, when granted, is precious and it is earned, and God, how Richard loves seeing Thomas Barrow like this, joyful and unguarded. It reminds him of their trip to the Downton post office in July, the prank call and the way they’d stumbled out onto the street afterwards, splitting their sides laughing, like schoolboys thrown out on their ear by the headmaster over some mischief. The way they’d bonded right then and there because they were in on the caper together, the evening ahead fraught with promise and possibility unknown. An exciting _maybe_.

How it would have panned out if only he’d kept a closer eye on the clock is anyone’s guess. While Richard does occasionally allow himself to wonder, he knows one thing for certain - if there was a way to go back and make it so that Thomas didn’t have to endure the humiliation and fright of a brutal arrest, he would take it without question, but he isn’t about to complain about the outcome.

"Told you to take a nap this afternoon, 's I recall."

“Yeah, and I was my usual stubborn self and didn’t listen. I _know_.” Thomas rolls his eyes benevolently - yet another testimony to his good humour. “I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be for you, having your words of wisdom ignored at every turn.”

“Oh, shush,” Richard mutters, ducking his head, and Thomas laughs and reaches across the table to ruffle his hair. It has been tempting once or twice to joke that Thomas fusses more with Richard’s hair than even his Mum ever did, but he is worried that Thomas might stop altogether and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Right,” Thomas says when they’ve both finished, as he lifts his glass of water to his mouth and unceremoniously drains it one long swill. “Let’s go up to bed.”

Richard coughs into his napkin and glances at the clock - it hasn’t even struck eight yet. Bloody hell, Thomas wasn’t being facetious when he suggested turning in early. “What about the dishes?”

“What about them? We’re in the country, we can do whatever the hell we like. Your words, Mr. Ellis.” Thomas gives what can only be described as an angelic smile. “You see? I do listen sometimes.”

Richard smiles back and folds his napkin slowly. His fingers feeling a bit wooden, struggling with the simple task. Thomas taking charge like this, being self-assertive and forward about what he wants, makes his blood run faster. “I’ll - er - I'll need a few minutes in the bathroom first, is that all right?”

“Right… yeah. Sure thing.” Thomas is clearly caught off guard, but smooths it over remarkably well. “Why don’t you go ahead, then? I’ll get everything in order down here and meet you upstairs in a few.”

“Sounds good.” Richard gets to his feet and hesitates for just a second, looking down at Thomas who gazes back up at him, mouth curling up slightly at the corners. There’s a shyness in him all of a sudden, but Richard doesn’t mind seeing that. He knows the shyness will be the first thing to go once they’re in bed together. “See you in a bit, lover,” he says, half serious and half teasing, as he leans down to kiss Thomas on the lips. When he pulls away, he is able to verify Thomas’s reaction to the endearment is every bit as strong as it was the first time.

Before he can move away, however, Thomas grasps his hand. “You know you don’t have to be pristine for me to want you, right?”

The words, whispered in the general direction of the floor, are unexpected in their sincerity. It somehow saves the situation from being awkward, and Richard strokes Thomas’s cheek with the back of his finger, moved by this man’s capacity to care, so evident in spite of his desperate attempts at reining it in. “I - yeah, Thomas, I do. I just want to do what I can to make you - us - comfortable.”

“Well, don’t be too long.”

“I won’t.”

Richard goes up the stairs and undresses in the bathroom, turning on the tap to wash himself - especially under his armpits and between his legs. He hasn’t _always_ been this particular about personal hygiene, but the older he gets, the more important it seems - especially when he’s about to be seen up close and nude by a man whose good opinion of him is paramount. True to his word, he does his best to be efficient about the process, and once he’s done all that he can, he slips into a clean pair of undergarments. At the last minute, he even runs a toothbrush through his mouth. Shivering a bit even in his long pants, he pads out of the bathroom on bare feet and crosses the landing, to the bedroom. _Their_ bedroom, for one more night.

This room is slightly more agreeable than the rest of the upstairs, courtesy of the old heater his uncle had installed. Thomas is reclining on the bed, head and shoulders propped up on a pillow. He too is in his underwear, his nose buried in a book.

“Agatha Christie?” Richard asks as he joins Thomas from the foot end of the bed, crawling up over his legs on hands and knees. It seems rather direct, to mount him like this without preamble, and what thrills Richard most of all is that Thomas doesn’t so much as bat an eye.

Going to bed as they have spent the day - together. They might as well have been doing this for years.

Thomas peeks at him with slightly narrowed eyes. “I never claimed my taste in literature was highbrow.”

“Nor does it have to be.” Leaning on his arms, Richard lowers his hips against Thomas’s. “Is it good?”

“Positively gripping.” Thomas earmarks the page and closes the book. “Going to put it away now, though.”

“You sure? I don’t mind if you read for a bit longer.” He runs his fingers through the hair at Thomas’s temple, the grey more noticeable among the black now that he’s grown it out a bit. “I’ll be perfectly all right watching you from right here. Or perhaps you could read to me. I’d like that.”

Thomas sighs. “Richard, if you think for a second I’m going to absorb even a single word while you’re on top of me wearing hardly anything at all, you’re not half as clever as you think you are.” He tosses the book in the direction of the night table, not even looking to see where it lands. “Truth be told, I was barely taking in a word before you came in.”

“O-oh?”

“Yeah, I - I got distracted, picturing what you were doing in the other room. And why.” Thomas wraps an arm around Richard’s waist as he gazes up at him. Then wrinkles his nose suddenly. “You even brushed your teeth, didn’t you?”

Richard nods self-consciously. “But I didn’t floss,” he says, almost defensively. He knows vanity is a vice, but surely caring for one’s teeth and gums is just good common sense? Even if it is considered in poor taste for a royal servant to smile while on duty, he wouldn’t keep his position in the household for very long if his teeth started falling out.

“Silly man, come here.”

Richard closes his eyes as Thomas kisses his neck. “I gather that particular ritual wasn’t part of your imaginings.”

“Hmm, can’t say it was. Thinking of you brushing your teeth doesn’t get me particularly excited, I must admit.”

Richard smiles, still with his eyes closed. Thomas’s mouth is diligent, covering every inch of his neck with kisses. “And washing my balls does?” For a moment Thomas grows still, and Richard can tell he’s trying to work out if he’s being mocked. To reassure him, he changes position, nudging one of his thighs between Thomas’s. After a second, they part for him willingly. Thomas draws his now captured leg up at the knee to increase contact, and Richard knows it won’t be long before his body starts to respond - he can already feel something stir in the pit of his belly. Thomas as of yet is unaffected, but it isn’t abnormal for him to need a little more time.

“I like thinking about you touching yourself,” Thomas answers with smothered voice, “in any context, even the most mundane.”

“Feel free to imagine all you like.” Richard kisses him to reward him for the confession. “I’m no stranger to woolgathering myself. I’ve been particularly absent-minded lately, as my colleagues can attest.”

“Not very circumspect of you, Mr. Ellis.”

Richard narrows his eyes and stifles laughter. “You’re going to keep using those words against me ‘till kingdom come, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Thomas says simply, and brings one hand down to cup one of Richard’s buttocks and squeeze. “Because you take a little teasing so well. You’re a difficult one to make blush, kitten, but I’m learning. Slowly learning how to get you a bit flustered.”

“You certainly are,” Richard mutters, a soft gasp escaping him when Thomas rolls his hips slightly but deliberately, giving his arse another leisurely squeeze through the fabric of his pants. This has barely even started and he is already getting hard from that fucking hand and the friction of being pressed up against Thomas’s muscular thigh alone. “Ah, Thomas… _God_ -”

Thomas twines his free hand into Richard’s hair and draws his knee up a little further, humming encouragingly when Richard tilts his pelvis to grind against him, entranced by the feeling. There is no way Thomas isn’t aware of what’s happening, but he would be the last to make a mockery of Richard for his excitability. “What about my cock, though? Will you take it as well as your mouth did today?”

“Fuck,” Richard gasps, tilting his head back and not caring about the sight he must present like this, rubbing himself against Thomas’s thigh like some wanton youngster and arching his throat. “I - I hope so. I will try.”

“I know you will,” Thomas says, surprisingly softly, and he guides Richard’s head down and kisses him below the ear. “But I need you to be sure we should proceed with this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Richard murmurs, and bows his head to rest his forehead in the pillow. “I know you won’t and I trust you. And yes, I’m sure. I want you, Thomas - I want you more than anything.”

Thomas gives a soft whimper from the back of his throat. “We’ll take it slow.”

Richard smiles breathlessly into the pillow. “Slow works for me. You know that by now.”

“I do.” Thomas turns his head and kisses his temple. “How long’s it been?”

“Forever and a day.” They have stopped moving, which is kind of nice for now, but Richard can’t resist slipping his hand under the hem of Thomas’s shirt and finding some skin to touch. “Years. Eight or nine at the very least, if you want a number.”

“Really?” Thomas sounds genuinely incredulous. “I mean, er… Don’t take this the wrong way, but I frankly expected it would be less than that. Based on, er, what I’ve learned about you so far.”

“Very diplomatic,” Richard teases, and pinches Thomas’s side. He lifts his head so Thomas will see he isn’t offended. “As I told you, I can do both the giving and the taking. In recent years I just haven’t been with anyone who… was inclined to give.”

“Christ. How unlucky.”

Richard shrugs. “We’re fishing in a smaller pond than most people, Thomas. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Thanks a lot,” Thomas says drily, and Richard’s stomach sinks with instant regret over so much tactlessness, inadvertent or no, but before he can begin apologising Thomas starts to laugh. He really _is_ getting to be a master at pushing Richard’s buttons in more than one way. “Don’t you dare say sorry, Richard,” he says, forestalling Richard’s reaction. “If you do, I’m going to have to be very stern with you.”

Richard settles for a soft, conciliatory kiss instead. “I’m not feeling so unlucky now,” he says, pulling back to survey Thomas’s face and letting his fingers continue their exploring under Thomas’s shirt. “I remember looking at you when we were at the pub today and gloating to myself. I thought, I can’t believe this gorgeous man is coming home with me later.”

He means every word, but Thomas isn’t one to take direct praise in stride. “How could you think that when I acted like an ogre on the way over?”

Richard can barely hold back a smile. Every now and then, Thomas says these things that betray a bookish mind, and it is endearing. “No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did. I was horrid to you.”

“Thomas, we butted heads a little. It was as much my fault as it was yours, and with our personalities it is bound to happen sometimes. We had best get used to it.”

“I don’t think I _want_ to get used to it,” Thomas says softly, and Richard wonders, once again, what in God’s name happened to that patented Ellis eloquence.

“I meant,” he rephrases carefully, “that I don’t want you to feel guilty when we do, inevitably, argue, or think that I care about you any less for it, that’s all. I know I ruffled your feathers on the way to the pub and I could have backed down sooner, or gone about making my point in a different way.”

“Yes, you could have,” Thomas cedes, and just like that, they seem to have come down on the same side of the argument and nothing else needs to be said about it. Not exactly the time for it, either. Thomas kisses him slowly, intently, as if to remind him of what they were originally doing.

“And you’re okay with it?” Richard checks. The question seems almost redundant, but he has to ask, for the sake of absolute certainty, before this goes any further. “With… doing the taking? You said back in January that you had limited experience at it.”

“I have limited experience with just about everything at this point,” Thomas says, unable to keep the bitter from his voice completely. “I wasn’t lying or exaggerating when I said my love life has been in ruins, Richard. In the past, yeah, I often found myself on the receiving end for various reasons, but that doesn’t mean it’s the _only_ thing I like. Meaning that, er… fuck, I want what you want, all right? It’s been on my mind ever since you first mentioned it.”

Richard nods, reassured on that score at least, but part of Thomas’s answer puzzles him. “What do you mean, ‘in the past’? When did you have your last experiences before me?” He realises it could be too invasive a question and almost doesn’t expect Thomas to answer, but to his surprise, he does.

“Summer 1923. Found myself in London and went to Soho - you’re familiar with the place, I believe.”

Thomas’s final remark - a glum attempt at levity - can’t stop Richard’s heart from sinking in his chest. That was Thomas’s most recent affair? A furtive shag - if it even went that far - in a bar or back alley in Soho, four years before they met?

Before he can respond, however, Thomas silences him with a finger on his lips. _No pity_ , is what that gesture says. “It’s not important, Richard. We’re here now.”

Richard kisses his finger and nods. “We are.”

“I’m sorry.” Thomas sighs and shifts his leg, the one that’s pressed against Richard’s now flaccid cock. “I’m afraid I killed the mood with all my talking and put you off me.”

“As if you could,” Richard murmurs and he begins bunching up the fabric of Thomas’s shirt. “Come, let’s get this off you so I can look at you proper, haven’t been able to all day.”

Thomas smirks but makes no protest, raising his arms and wiggling helpfully until, with joint efforts, they manage to peel the garment off him. “Look your fill then, Mr. Ellis,” he says, playfully cocky, but Richard doesn’t need the instigation to do so. He slowly drags his fingers through the coarse hair that covers much of Thomas’s belly and chest, struck as always by the stark contrast with his own body. Turned on by it, too. He lowers his head to kiss Thomas’s chest, right by his sternum, between his nipples. He thumbs at one experimentally and slowly kisses his way towards it, glancing up briefly at Thomas who is watching him curiously but doesn’t speak, neither against nor in favour of what Richard is doing. So Richard licks at his thumb and forefinger before taking the nipple between them and pinching slightly, then a little harder. He stops when Thomas grimaces - the first reaction he’s given at all.

“You don’t like it?” he asks, uncertainly.

Thomas looks sheepish, almost guilty. “Yeah, no… That’s never really done much for me, to tell you the truth. I’m sorry.”

“Christ, nothing to apologise for. Not even when I use my mouth, though?”

Thomas shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, no. Just not… sensitive that way, there. Not like women are.”

“Not just women,” Richard says. He’s moved his hand away, fingers mapping the ridge of Thomas’s collarbone. Unlike his own, it is as yet unblemished by passion marks, a state of affairs Richard reminds himself to change before their return to normalcy.

“Not just women…” Thomas seems intrigued by the remark. “Am I to conclude you like it, then?”

“You’re welcome to find out.”

“Duly noted, Mr. Ellis.” He lifts his hand to stroke Richard’s hair thoughtfully. “I... have another question, though, if I may.”

“Of course.”

“What happened this afternoon… after you finished yourself off -” Thomas pauses, weighs his words. Richard waits, not wholly surprised that Thomas is bringing this up, nor that he chose this moment to do so. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but it seemed like you passed out for a minute there.”

“No, I didn’t.” Richard shakes his head slowly, grateful for the chance to reassure Thomas on this score. He can only imagine how it must have looked to the unprepared eye. “I was conscious the whole time.”

“You didn’t respond, though. Didn’t even hear me, ‘s far as I could tell. Scared me a bit, to tell you the truth, seeing you like that. Has it - has anything like that ever happened to you before?”

When Richard asked himself that same question earlier today, a few prior occasions had sprung to mind - in particular, a tryst with a baron who’d taken a shine to him while visiting the house where Richard worked as a footman at the time. Every night, while the rest of the household slept in blissful ignorance, the baron - who was handsome enough for a man of almost fifty - had Richard between the fine silks of his guest bed and proved himself fastidious in his self-appointed task of introducing him to a variety of pleasurable things. It was tiresome at times, acting the part of _eromenos_ to the baron’s _erastes_ , but as long as he got a few earth-shattering orgasms out of the arrangement - and he did - Richard wasn’t one to complain about his lot. One time, he spent what felt like hours on elbows and knees while his older lover patiently speared him with three fingers for no other purpose than to make him appreciate his prostate in a way he never had before, keeping him right on that edge for a tortuously long time and murmuring praise throughout. Richard had almost blacked out when he finally came, keening as he collapsed face first into the pillow, convulsing around those fingers that seemed to know things about him he hadn’t had an inkling of himself.

He remembers teetering on the cusp of an almost trancelike state afterwards, similar to what he had experienced earlier today. The best thing he can compare it to is being pleasantly drunk on the kind of alcohol he serves to his employers but rarely gets to sample himself - being almost weightless, floating, not a single thought or care in his mind. That was how he’d felt lying in Thomas’s lap, like nothing could hurt him, nothing mattered - nothing _existed_ \- but the two of them.

“Yeah, I think it might have. When I was much younger, mind - before the war. It felt different today, more intense. A good kind of intense, though - very good kind.”

Thomas ruminates on this for a moment or two. “I guess… I guess I’m asking because - if it were to happen again - I’d like to know what to do? It took me by surprise today, and like I said, it startled me. I want to know how to accurately respond next time.”

Moved by Thomas’s concern, Richard takes his face between his hands and gives him a fond smile. “Thomas - dear Thomas - it means so much to me that you’re asking these questions and I wish I could give you all the answers, but - the truth is, I don’t have any. I don’t know exactly what to tell you because it's not something I really understand myself. I just know that what you did today was perfect, and exactly what I needed.”

Thomas doesn’t look entirely reassured. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly. You touched me, let me know you were there - with your hands, with your voice. Even if you didn’t know what to do, you did exactly the right thing, and I felt -” _Treasured. Protected. Loved._ _So incredibly loved._ He clears his throat. “I felt safe. God, I wish I’d had someone care for me like that the few times I found myself in that situation in the past.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No, Thomas,” Richard says slowly, thinking of the baron, who’d been kind and full of praise to him in his afterglow, but the two situations couldn’t be more incomparable. “Never to that degree. Never someone who… was my equal. Be it in station, age, or any way at all, really.”

Thomas nods thoughtfully - he’s been there, too. Richard suspects their paths have been remarkably similar in that respect. “The higher the rank, the lower the morals.”

“Sure felt like it at times.”

“Do you want to tell me…” Thomas trails off briefly - seems to be losing his nerve almost, but finds it again. “This morning, you mentioned certain… unpleasant experiences, when I asked you why you never put your hand in my hair. But when I accidentally did it to you this afternoon, you seemed fine with it.”

Richard kisses the worried frown between his brows. “I don’t mind you touching my head when we’re intimate, Thomas. I trust you and I know you wouldn’t try to force something I don’t want to do. I’m just cautious about doing it to other people - especially you, because I don’t want to risk making you feel coerced in any way. I enjoy myself more, knowing you’re doing everything of your own free will… in your own time.”

Thomas nods, understanding, but Richard can see in his eyes that his true question remains unanswered. So he takes a breath and goes on, “I think it traces back to one experience I had during my first year in London. I was - God, I was a child still, when you think about it. Hopelessly naive. Anyway, this bloke - I forget his name, and it doesn’t matter - requested the use of my mouth, which I gave him willingly enough, but then he put these big, strong paws on my head and it - well, it turned into a situation where I didn’t have much of a choice but to keep still and wait for him to finish.”

His mouth twists at the memory, and he’s surprised at the disgust rising in his throat. He hasn’t thought of the man in a long time, and while he can’t remember his name or even his face, really, he still has a fairly vivid recollection of those hands clutching his scalp like an iron vise and that constant stream of _good boy, now, there’s a good boy_ panted above him with ever increasing urgency.

“Anyway, there you have it,” he tells Thomas, who seems sad, but not surprised. “Experiences like that taught me a great deal about boundaries, and which types of men to avoid if I could. Learned a few hard lessons that way. I wouldn’t have lasted long in London if I wasn’t a quick learner.”

Thomas sighs. “We all have to be, though, don’t we? Quick learners, that is. Once we realise we’re different - we have to figure out how to keep existing in this world, and most of us have to do it completely alone, often without even knowing there’s others out there going through the same thing. It took me years to discover there was a name for what I was.”

“Several names,” Richard says, “few of them good.”

“Yeah. You had your uncle, though.” There isn’t a trace of envy in Thomas’s voice as he says it. “At least you had him to tell you what’s what from fourteen onwards.”

“I did, Thomas, and I’m grateful for it, but make no mistake - I still walked my own path and made every poor decision in the book, all his good advice notwithstanding. I gave you just one example of many. Every scrap of wisdom I’ve managed to gather over the years came at a price.”

Here, Richard stops himself and takes a steadying breath as Thomas regards him with an analytical expression, as though trying to work him out. Dear God, why is he saying these things? Why does he _want_ to say them? Why does it bother him so much when Thomas of all people looks at him like the sun shines out of his arse?

_Don’t be fooled by the veneer, Thomas. Look more closely._

"Now _I_ must apologise," he says after a moment, offering a wan smile. "Waffling on and on about myself and my sordid history."

"I asked," Thomas says simply, and kisses him. "I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't interested in you. And in your sordid history." Kisses him again, with slightly open mouth this time. Murmurs, “Will you lie down on your back for me, Mr. Ellis?"

When Thomas asks a favour of him in that voice, any favour at all, there isn't a bone in Richard's body that thinks about refusing. They trade positions and the first thing Thomas does is take the hem of Richard's shirt and start inching it up along his torso. "Who taught you about the word?"

"Word?"

“The word you suggested we use when we spoke on the telephone New Year’s Eve. Have you had phone conversations like that before?”

Thomas’s hands have pulled Richard’s shirt up to his chest, and Richard lifts his arms up over his head. “I do a fair amount of traveling for work, Thomas. The phone helps me stay in touch -”

“Not the fucking question,” Thomas grunts, and Richard feels something spike in his belly.

“Yeah. I’ve had conversations like that before.”

“Thought so. Far too good at it for it to have been the first time.” Thomas lifts the fabric over Richard’s head, careful not to make it catch on his nose. “Come on, who was it? One of the chaps you met in Soho? Smiled at in a bar? Had behind a curtain with his pants down?”

“Yeah, one of those. Doesn’t matter who.”

“You speak of these things so callously, Mr. Ellis.” Thomas is guiding Richard’s bunched up shirt along his arms tortuously slowly, but when he gets to Richard’s forearms, he stops. Surveys Richard’s face. “Yet I don’t believe you’re callous by nature.”

_Oh, Thomas._

“It doesn’t fill me with any great pride to talk about my past,” he says softly, “but I won’t hide it from you, either. As for the word - yes, I knew about the concept, but I came up with ours on the spot when we were on the telephone. And why shouldn’t we keep it in the back of our minds whenever we’re together? I want you to know you always have the option to bow out, or ask for a respite. At any time and for any reason.”

“I do know that. But so far I haven’t wanted to take it.” Richard feels Thomas’s fingers tightening their grip on the fabric wrapped around his forearms and wrists, using it to slowly press Richard’s arms down into the bed above his head. A whine gets stuck in Richard’s throat and then breaks free. Thomas has surprised him with this, but in the best way. The very, very best. “And what about you?” Thomas asks softly, watching his face attentively.

“Haven’t had to use it, either. God, Thomas -”

Leaning down, Thomas nuzzles his bicep, rubs his nose against him as he moves gradually lower. “But you would if anything I do makes you uncomfortable? I feel I may already have skirted the line once or twice.”

“I would, Thomas, I promise. But you haven’t. You make me feel so good, love. _Ah_ -” He shivers at the feeling of Thomas’s tongue at his armpit, trailing leisurely through his hair. This, this is unfamiliar, but he is sensitive in that area and there’s an almost animalistic quality to what Thomas is doing. It makes him feel exposed and bare, _vulnerable_ , and he finds himself arching up from the waist, his prick stirring again.

Thomas eventually shifts his attention away from Richard’s armpit, mouth tracing the slope of his shoulder, kissing the base of his neck. “Maybe we need a second word,” he murmurs, “to encourage one another at certain times.”

“If - if you like.” Richard flexes his arms carefully, testing his restraints. “Doesn’t my moaning and cussing encourage you enough?” Thomas is kissing his way down his sternum now, lingering at the patch of hair connecting his nipples, a fairly negligible amount compared to Thomas’s hairy chest and lighter in colour. He wonders if Thomas is as much turned on by the differences in their physique as he is.

“Oh, it’s encouraging all right - but you could always do it more.”

“I’ll - keep that in mind,” Richard says haltingly, and just then, Thomas flicks his tongue at one of his nipples and closes his mouth over it, latching on and sucking gently. Inhaling sharply, Richard tenses and arches up against that mouth, a loud moan building in his chest when Thomas sucks a little harder and alternates with lazy swirls of his tongue. “Fuck, oh, yeah, Thomas, _fuck_ -”

Thomas hums and drapes his leg over Richard’s thighs, effectively pinning him down on that end as well. Rendering him almost immobile. Richard whimpers and moves his arms, a token struggle not meant to dissuade Thomas at all, and feels himself grow harder with every pass of Thomas’s tongue.

“Sensitive,” Thomas murmurs when he leans up for a moment to take in the result of his handiwork. Richard wonders if he looks every bit as flustered as he feels, if Thomas can see how turned on he’s getting. Probably so. His tenting underwear is a dead giveaway too.

“Told you.” Richard watches Thomas lean over to the other side and tosses his head back into the pillow as the other nipple gets the same treatment. “God, Thomas, you’re so good - so good to me.” He feels Thomas moan against his skin and jerks his arms when he feels the brief sting of teeth. “Careful, love, gently - not too much of that. Tongue is better, fucking love that tongue, there, yeah, right there. That’s it… that’s - ah - _perfect_ , darling.” Thomas is now sucking in earnest, lapping at him liberally, and Richard is fucking _panting._ He can feel Thomas’s grip on his arms slipping unintentionally, giving him more leeway to move. He doesn’t necessarily want to take advantage of that, but it is getting tempting to wiggle an arm free and slip a hand into his pants to close around his throbbing prick, sorely neglected up until this point. “Please,” he gasps, “Thomas, I need - I wanna touch myself so bad. Please, love.”

Thomas kisses his chest as he crosses back over. “No, I think not. But I like very much that you asked this time. You’re learning.”

“Please -” Richard jolts when Thomas rubs his stubbled cheek against his raw nub before taking it back into his mouth and sucking hard. He is going to be hurting afterwards and it’ll be glorious. He grins breathlessly, flexing his arms and assessing how very little force it would take at this point to untangle himself. “Gonna have to hold me down harder than this if you want to prevent me.”

He is saying it to test Thomas, to see what he’ll do, and he isn’t disappointed when Thomas moves his mouth an inch or two and sucks a love bite into his skin, right by his nipple. When he leans up next, and looks at what he’s just done, Richard thinks he can see a look of uncertainty crossing his face - like he’s shocked at what he’s capable of. It changes the mood completely. Thomas slowly releases Richard’s arms, removing his shirt altogether, briefly caressing his wrists before pulling away, as if to apologise.

“Why are you letting me do these things?” he whispers, thumbing gently at the fresh bite in Richard’s flesh.

“Because I fucking love it, Thomas.” Richard wishes he could summon more eloquence than this, for Thomas’s sake, but he supposes he should feel grateful for managing to string a simple sentence together under these circumstances. His tongue feels thick and sluggish, his heart pounding frantically, pumping undiluted fervour through his veins. “I love it so much, you have no idea.”

“Why?” Thomas worries his lip between his teeth. “Aren’t you… humiliated?”

“No.” Richard lowers his arms, surreptitiously curling his numb fingers to get the blood flowing again. “It’s play, Thomas. For enjoyment. It’s not real.”

“Of course. I know it isn’t.”

“You’re not mistreating me, and you’re not hurting me. Please don’t ever think you are.”

“Well… if you say so.” Thomas sighs. “Can’t say I truly understand it, though.”

“Hopefully in time you will.” Richard brushes a lock of hair away from Thomas’s forehead. “Were you enjoying yourself, though? Before your head took over?” He gets a hesitant nod, but that won’t quite do in terms of reassurance. Not when the stakes are this high. “Thomas, if you’re having doubts about this, we don’t have to -”

“No, I want to,” Thomas says more clearly, and blushes. “I - I do enjoy it. I just feel I should be ashamed for enjoying it like I do. For… degrading you like that.”

“It isn’t degradation. It’s - quite the opposite, actually. God, Thomas, I wish I knew how to explain it adequately, but it makes me feel so… free. When we are together like this, I can just let everything go and enjoy. Enjoy myself, enjoy _you_. Trust me, I couldn’t willingly share this sort of thing with anyone I didn’t feel completely safe with.” These words, finally, coax a tentative smile from Thomas, and Richard mirrors him. “Haven’t you noticed what’s been happening down south while you had your way with me?”

Thomas nods slowly and lets his gaze trail downwards to contemplate the current state of affairs. After a moment’s hesitation, a beat merely, he reaches for the buttons on Richard’s pants with one hand and starts slipping them through their holes one by one, gaining momentum and confidence as he goes. Richard leans up on his elbows to watch, parting his thighs as Thomas’s fingers reach inside and grasp his hard prick. “There’s your encouragement,” he says, low, and tips his head back as Thomas strokes his shaft almost thoughtfully, thumbing at the frenulum, squeezing just below the head.

“You’re too good to me, love.” Richard smiles with closed eyes. Rolls his hips slightly into Thomas’s grasp, meeting him at every stroke. Thomas already knows what he likes most, rhythm and everything, and uses that knowledge whether he realises it or not. “Aren’t you going to discipline me for being such a cheeky boy earlier?”

“What’d you call this, then?” Thomas mutters, touching the fresh bruise on Richard’s chest.

“You branded me. That’s not punishment, Thomas, that’s a fucking trophy, and I haven’t earned it.”

“Then make sure that you do.” Thomas flattens his hand over the bruise, palm warm and steady on Richard’s skin. His other hand continues moving unhurriedly inside Richard’s pants. “Show me that you can behave like I need you to. That I can trust you.”

Richard lets out a moan that sounds obscene even to his own ears. He feels Thomas touching him, holding him. Between his legs, on his chest. Richard finds he’s like wax under those capable hands. “God, Thomas, if only you knew how it affects me when you talk like that -”

“Look at me.” Richard raises his head, bleary eyes finding Thomas’s trained on him. The hand on his chest twitches, fingers dragging through the hair on his chest. “Promise me, now.”

“Yes.” Richard sucks air in through his teeth when Thomas takes his already tender nipple between two fingers, tweaks it slowly. Richard whines, high and long. It’s embarrassing, and he doesn’t care. He only wants _more_. “I can be good for you, Thomas, I promise.”

“We’ll see.” He releases Richard’s prick with a final twist of his wrist, fingers tugging at the flap of Richard’s pants as he pulls away. “Get these off, please.”

Heart thudding with anticipation, Richard obeys. Raises his arse off the bed and slips his thumbs underneath his waistband to push the garment down his hips, sits up to peel it off the rest of the way. His fingers shake.

“Don’t rush,” says Thomas, who has stretched himself out beside him, propped up on one elbow. “I want to watch you.”

Richard takes a breath and finishes the task as patiently as he can, eventually kicking the garment away and over the edge of the bed. Now he sits fully naked, on his knees, erection jutting between his thighs. There’s moisture beading at the slit already. He sits back and waits for Thomas to speak.

“Fucking love seeing you like this.” Thomas trails his gaze up along Richard’s torso. “Love your poise and self-assurance. Love how you let me look at you.”

“Will you - will you let me do the same?” Richard gestures at Thomas’s still-clothed legs. “Please, Thomas -”

At this, Thomas hesitates noticeably. “I’m not… ah, I’m not equal to you yet.”

“I don’t care about that. Please, I want to see you.”

For a moment, it really is a tossup as to how Thomas will respond, but eventually he nods. Rolls over to face up, elbows pulled up under him, thighs loosely parted. He looks entirely at ease but for the timidity lurking behind the eyes when he glances up at Richard expectantly. “Since you asked so nicely - have at it, then.”

Richard’s hands are steadier when he brings them to Thomas’s waistband to take up the task. Buttons are familiar territory to him, part of the daily grind, but taking off a man’s underwear has never felt like a chore, thank God, with Thomas least of all. He doesn’t take his eyes away from Thomas’s face as he slowly peels back the fabric to uncover all of him, only permitting himself to look at him fully once he’s finished. Traveling up the alluring ‘V’ of those well-shaped legs, his appreciative gaze inevitably stutters as it reaches Thomas’s soft sex at the crux of his thighs. He sets his hand upon Thomas’s leg, just above the knee. Says, “You’re beautiful,” but even that compliment seems to fall short of what Thomas deserves to hear. Every day, if it were up to him.

“m Damaged goods, Richard,” Thomas says. In an attempt to pass his reply off as a joke, he adds, “Should’ve seen me fifteen years ago - had the waistline of a young boy then.”

“You _were_ a young boy fifteen years ago.” Richard strokes the inside of Thomas’s knee. “A man now. I see plenty to admire. We all get older, and try to take the blows life deals us as gracefully as we can. It’s no different for me.”

“Doesn’t seem to have hurt your ability to get a hard-on, or sustain one.” Thomas eyes Richard’s erection almost enviously. “I’m sorry, it’s not you that’s the problem. I’ll catch up, I promise -”

“It doesn’t bother me, Thomas. We’re still at the beginning of this, learning. I’m enjoying learning about you.” Smiling, he slowly drags the tips of his fingers up Thomas’s leg, from the ankle up. He leans down to kiss Thomas’s knee, keeping his eyes on his face as he does. It’s oddly intense, this man is intense, what they are doing is intense and Richard is keen to absorb every second. “Do you want my mouth?”

“No. Come here.” Thomas reaches out, curling his fingers around Richard’s shoulder. “You moaned so prettily when my tongue was on your nipples, I want to hear the sounds you make when it’s inside you.”

_Oh dear God._

Thomas almost casually goes on, “Do you want to lie on your side or sit on my face? Your choice, Mr. Ellis.”

How can one man doubt himself like Thomas does and yet say something like _that_ a moment later? Richard’s cock twitches, and Thomas grins knowingly.

“I’ll lie down,” Richard says through clenched teeth. “Not that the other option doesn’t sound enticing, but I don’t think I could keep myself upright for very long.”

“So much faith in my ability to make you lose control,” Thomas says, guiding Richard to lie down sideways, facing him. “I’m flattered.”

“It’s all based on prior experience.” Awaiting further instruction, Richard looks on breathlessly as Thomas stretches himself out the other way - feet towards the top of the bed, head towards the bottom. A position that brings his crotch almost level with Richard’s face, enabling them to pleasure each other orally at the same time if they so choose. A soft moan escapes him.

“Behave, Mr. Ellis. Don’t make me regret trusting you. Pull your knees up, towards me.” Richard’s prompt obedience garners a satisfied hum, and Thomas hooks his arm underneath Richard’s thigh and angles it up to create room for himself between his legs, taking it in a firm grasp. Then he does the same on the other side, slipping his arm between Richard’s leg and the bed. Soon, Richard feels Thomas’s biceps pressed against his thighs, his hands settle on his rump. His face - God, his face is _right there_ , where Richard is now most exposed. To anchor himself, Richard grasps the coverlet between his fingers. Whines.

“Is your back all right like this?”

It takes Richard a second to remember why Thomas would ask about his back at such a time.

“Yeah, it’s... yeah.”

“Good. Tell me if it becomes uncomfortable, and I’ll stop.” His fingers grip Richard’s arse, slowly separating the cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Of - of course, Thomas, fuck - please, love -” He gasps for breath when he feels Thomas’s tongue appear at the exposed underside of his bollocks, followed by his lips and even more of his mouth, taking in each of his testicles as he hums and sucks at the same time, and if Richard wasn’t hard already the wet heat and pressure of Thomas’s mouth would change that in a heartbeat. His leg jerks, and Thomas grips it anew, using his shoulder to support it.

“Relax for me,” he rumbles, and laps at him once, at the root of him, before shifting his attention towards the perineum, and his rim. “Try to lie still.”

“I -” Richard releases the covers from one hand and puts it on Thomas’s thigh instead. Craving the contact. Some solidity. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask, that you try.” The first time Thomas’s tongue passes over his hole, just over and away, Richard feels a moan tear from his throat. At the same time, he spares a moment of gratitude for cleaning himself prior to this, thank God he had the presence of mind -

It takes a moment for him to realise Thomas is muttering something - and he hasn’t understood a single word. He tries lifting his head, but it’s heavy, everything is heavy and sluggish. “What, love?”

“Little less soap next time,” Thomas reiterates, almost matter-of-factly. His tongue is already back at Richard’s rim, with unhurried, languid licks. “Would rather taste you.”

“Oh.” Richard grins, suddenly aware. “Sorry. May have gotten a bit overzealous.”

“‘s All right. I know you meant well.”

“I did. Wanted everything to be perfect,” here his breath hitches - Thomas is zeroing in on his hole, “for you.”

“Silly man -”

“For my lover,” Richard breathes, as Thomas’s tongue presses against him, into him slightly, and Thomas’s responding moan reverberates, sends a thrill up to his balls. “Who treats me so well.” On impulse, he reaches back and down, to where Thomas’s face is buried between his cheeks. Not that he can see much except the top of his head - a mess of disheveled black hair. He hesitates briefly and then brushes Thomas’s scalp with the tips of his fingers. He can feel Thomas shiver between his legs and it emboldens him, so he softly scratches his head, twirls some hair around his fingers and tugs. This time Thomas moans again, hard and deep, and Richard feels it against his skin as well as inside of him.

“So well,” he repeats, gasping, as he slowly lowers his head onto the pillow of Thomas’s thigh. He notices Thomas’s cock starting to fill out, the foreskin pulling back to reveal a ruddy head. He wasn’t worried in the slightest, but it’s a welcome sight all the same. It’s significant, he thinks, that Thomas is getting hard doing this, while he’s pleasuring Richard and asking nothing in return, not even the touch to the head Richard is now tentatively giving him.

_He’s enjoying this. He’s got his tongue in me and he’s fucking loving it as much as I am._

“You’re a bloody chatterbox, Ellis,” mutters Thomas, who pulls out. “But God, I love hearing you talk. And cuss.” He seals his lips over Richard’s hole and sucks, using his tongue to flick at him occasionally.

“I - I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, fuck - oh, _Thomas_ -” Thomas licks at him solicitously, down the perineum, under his balls and back, dragging the flat of his tongue over him a tortuous amount of times. “Christ, Thomas, please - give it to me already,” he implores, and Thomas pokes at him with the tip of his tongue, spreading him with his thumbs as best he can.

“Need you to relax for me, darling,” Thomas murmurs, and if anything could turn Richard’s muscles to jelly it’s that’s fucking word spoken in that fucking tone and _God_ \- “Need you to trust me, to let me do this.”

“I can,” Richard stammers, and tries his best to be good and lie still even while he feels like he’s slowly disintegrating, “I do, I will, I -”

Whatever he might have said next is cut off by the moan rising in his throat when Thomas breaches him, more intently than the first time. Richard’s whole body jolts, but Thomas’s arms locked around his thighs don’t budge, keeping him steady as he works his tongue past the ring and further inside, slick and hot. Trying to remind himself to breathe, Richard can’t keep from shifting his hips, trying desperately to take him deeper, but Thomas has him in a secure grasp and so he soon gives up, surrendering to the pace Thomas is dictating. Letting him take care of him, which he does so willingly. So _unreservedly._

“Yes,” he gasps, as Thomas slowly, steadily pushes his tongue into him, “you go on and fill me with that, Thomas. Feels so _good_ , love.” Thomas hums deep in his throat - his cock pulses, slowly swelling still, heavy on his thigh. Richard can’t tear his eyes away. There’s something so oddly erotic about it, being so close, seeing every twitch. Knowing that it’s being inside him and hearing his words of encouragement that are doing this, that are affecting him this way. It’s intimacy, pure and unadulterated, and Richard can’t remember the last time he felt this… this _close_ to someone.

“That’s it,” he murmurs when Thomas bottoms out and stays like that for a moment or two, his breath hot on Richard’s arse. His chin stubble rough as it presses flush against him, and it’s only when he pulls out that Richard realises he’s been holding his breath, a helpless whine rushing out of him. There’s something so undignified about it all, lying here panting into Thomas’s thigh, one leg stuck in the air, and the best part is - he doesn’t care. “Oh, God, Thomas,” he whimpers as Thomas circles his rim with a newly-slick tongue, only dipping in once or twice. Teasing, delaying. “Put it back in me. Please.”

Thomas nips at the fleshy part of his buttock, a reprimand probably for being too demanding. “Am I not pleasing you well enough, Mr. Ellis?”

“Of course… of course you are.”

“Mmm. That’s what I thought.” Again, his lips cover Richard’s hole and he begins sucking rhythmically, occasionally curling his tongue over him in a way that makes Richard’s cock throb between his belly and Thomas’s chest. Thomas is close to fully hard himself, his cock poking out flushed and eager. Richard desperately wants to touch him - to cradle the heavy bollocks and stroke up along the shaft, thumbing slowly at the swollen tip - but knows better than to chance it.

“Just eager, Thomas,” he breathes, turning his head so he’ll _stop fucking drooling_ on Thomas’s thigh. “Eager for you to have me whichever way you choose.”

Thomas groans while his mouth is still on him, and it reverberates in the pit of Richard’s belly. “God - you mean it too, don’t you? You’d let me do just about anything, you’re that starved for it.”

Richard nods. “It’s just been too fucking long, Thomas,” he says, muffled. “Too fucking long since someone took care of me like you do. Made me lose my goddamn mind like you can. Please - do what you want with me."

At this, Thomas has to stop for a few seconds to rest his head upon Richard's thigh and catch his breath, choking out, "Jesus, Richard, the things you say to me."

Richard grins. "Too much for you?"

Thomas scoffs. Mutters, "You're still too far coherent for my tastes," and tongues at him with renewed vigour as if determined to change that state of affairs sooner rather than later. “Want you gasping, Mr. Ellis. Want you trembling and begging for my cock before it’s gone anywhere near you.”

Richard is briefly tempted to point out he was well on his way to that earlier, but when Thomas’s tongue nudges at his entrance again, he lets his head roll back onto Thomas’s thigh instead, setting his hand on his hip for anchorage. With the other, he reaches down and presses his fingertips to Thomas’s scalp, before settling for stroking his forearm instead. Feeling his muscles work to keep him propped up and steady as he starts - well, fucking him with his tongue, is what he’s doing, spearing him with deliberate, almost lazy thrusts. He’s sure and strong and _confident_ , treating the whole thing like a purpose in and of itself rather than a preparatory act leading up to the main event, and in less than no time at all Richard finds himself reduced to exactly the babbling, mindlessly swearing, boneless mess Thomas wanted him to be.

“Oh, fuck - oh, my God - Thomas, you’re - fucking incredible - being so - being so _good_ , love - blessed Holy Mary mother of _God_ -

Just when Richard is starting to entertain thoughts of whether it might be possible just to come from Thomas’s capable tongue alone, Thomas pulls out and reemerges from between Richard’s legs, giving his arse a squeeze for good measure. “There - that’ll do for now. Don’t want to wear you out too soon.”

Richard whimpers as he’s released and rolls over on his back - or is rolled over, he can’t really tell. He is wearing what he’s sure is a stupid grin on his face and can’t seem to wipe it off. “That was frankly extraordinary.”

Thomas chuckles. Richard feels the mattress dip under Thomas’s knees as he settles between his legs, thighs pressing slightly into his, but his head is too heavy to lift and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply as Thomas’s fingers stroke his hips, his flanks. “You can be quite sacrilegious when you’re enjoying yourself, Mr. Ellis. What religion are you, Anglican?”

“Yeah. Born into it, at any rate.”

“Baptised?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I hope you get some absolution next Sunday for using the Lord’s name in vain.” Richard can tell from Thomas’s tone that he’s teasing, but this is not the sort of thing he can joke about anymore. He opens his eyes.

“I don’t think my profanity is the worst of my problems when it comes to my deliverance, Thomas. Nor my unnatural desires or weakness of the flesh. I’ve committed greater sins than laying with a man.”

“Have you, indeed?” Thomas reaches for the tin of vaseline on the night table and screws it open. Sets it on the bed beside them and reaches inside for a scoop. Not taking his eyes away from Richard as he slicks his first two fingers. Richard almost cracks a smile at the near medical precision of it.

“You’re being very thorough.” He pulls the pillow to his head. Since it looks as though he’s going to be here a while, he might as well get comfortable.

“Oh, you took my tongue well enough. But you told me it’s been over eight years, Richard, so yeah - I’m going to do my damnedest to loosen you up as best I can before I put my prick anywhere near you.”

“Such a thoughtful lover,” Richard breathes, and draws his knees up as Thomas circles him lightly with his two fingers, his free hand resting on Richard’s hip. Eyes watching, considering. “Go on, then,” Richard spurs him on, almost moaning already at the thought of Thomas crossing those two fingers and sliding them in simultaneously, but for some reason he’s delaying.

“Why don’t you tell me about those horrible sins you say you’ve committed,” he says suddenly, almost stilling his hand, and Richard gazes up at him uncomprehendingly. “If you want to get them off your chest.”

“What - you mean _now_?” Richard stammers, and Thomas nods slowly. He seems astonishingly sincere, and Richard feels his guts twist into a knot at the thought of taking him up on his offer, of laying it all bare once and for all, right here and now.

The feeling is not altogether unpleasant.

Perhaps quite to the contrary.

“If I do, you’ll never look at me the same way again.”

“Meaning I won’t think of you as a paragon of bloody perfection anymore?” Thomas smiles slightly and his hand on Richard’s hip twitches, fingers wandering up his belly, maddeningly close to his prick. “Well, to that I say - good. You’ve been suggesting you’re just as flawed as the next person, but I’m still waiting for some proof to support those claims. Being demon spawn in your childhood and snapping at a nurse when you’re half dead from sepsis don’t count in my book.”

“You may be getting more than you bargained for.”

“Can’t be worse than some of the skulduggery I’ve got to my name,” Thomas suggests. His fingers have moved up further, lingering near Richard’s nipple. The two fingers of his other hand are still poised at his entrance almost casually.

“Worse than kidnapping a dog as a ploy to get in Lord Grantham’s good graces,” Richard says drily. Of all the examples of his past poor behaviour Thomas had detailed in his letters, it’s this one that springs to mind first. Always, without fail.

“I’ve done far worse than the dog, too. Which you should take as a reassurance that I’m not easily shocked.” Thomas’s hand returns to Richard’s hip, gently stroking. “Tell me, Richard. Please. I think deep down you want to.”

God help him, he does. Much as he dreads the prospect, he does - his erection throbbing against his belly is perhaps the most glaring evidence of how much he wants what Thomas is proposing. He swallows slowly, nods assent, and feels Thomas slowly turn his hand between his legs and enter him with two fingers closely joined together, quite easily. He clenches his teeth and grits out, “Fuck, Thomas, don’t know how coherent I’ll be with your fingers inside of me.”

“That’s all right,” Thomas says. His hand is caressing Richard’s hip continuously, soothingly. “Just try, darling. Try for as long as you can. Be easy, I’ve got you.”

Richard blinks to regain some focus, trying to sort his thoughts despite the distraction of Thomas’s fingers slowly pushing into his body. Stopping at the middle knuckles to give him some time, some space to think and breathe, which is sorely needed. The other hand keeps moving, keeps drawing idle patterns on his hip, and Richard finds it helps to focus on that instead.

“I told you about my grampa Bell, didn’t I? A salt-of-the-earth country man - never worked a day in service and wasn’t much in favour of my moving to London. The only member of my family who spoke out against it.”

“You said, yeah. Would’ve rather seen you take up chicken farming, as I recall.”

“Yeah. Well…” Richard sighs. “There are times when I wish I’d listened.”


	23. Richard (cont'd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: there are some flashback sequences referencing dubcon involving a minor.

He’d had monumental expectations of the capital, and to be fair, how could he not have? To a Yorkshire lad, who’d never traveled further south than Doncaster, London couldn’t be but a place of almost mythical grandeur, a land of milk and honey, and that was what he expected to find when he arrived there at seventeen years old to join a prominent aristocratic household at the recommendation of a well-connected family friend, carrying the weight of his family’s pride on his slim shoulders. It rather pains him now to think of the boy he was then - such an innocent still in many ways, not wholly unspoilt but tragically unprepared for the role he would soon find thrust upon him completely beyond his own influence.

He’d alighted from the train at King’s Cross toting a suitcase with all his worldly possessions inside, already homesick for Yorkshire and thinking of his Mum, who’d fastened a St. Christopher’s pin to his lapel and wept as she kissed his cheeks on the train platform back home. Still, he could only cling to his melancholic thoughts for so long once his feet trod London ground. After all, this was where it was all going to happen for him - adulthood, a meteoric climb to the top rungs of domestic service hierarchy, and most importantly, love. That was what he yearned for most of all - it was all he could think of, frankly - and London was where he was going to find it.

How quickly the place disabused him of the illusion.

Within weeks of his arrival, his new employers hosted a ball for the cream of the London aristocracy. Nerve-wracking for Richard, who’d been sent up to serve along with the senior footmen despite being the runt of the lot because all hands were needed at an event of this scale - at least that was the line the butler, Mr. Harris, fed him at the time. It was only later that one of the older footmen told him in a conspiratorial whisper it was mostly his ‘bonny face’ that’d earned him a place in the lineup, as one of the guests was a known degenerate who was always looking for fresh faces to admire among the servants.

“Lord Arthur Finch is a very influential man, you see - sits in the House of Lords - so the family keep inviting him even though he usually ends up misbehaving. I reckon Mr. Harris thought you might amuse him - take some of the heat off the rest of us.”

_ Misbehaving.  _ Richard gritted his teeth at that and turned away brusquely so the other fellow wouldn’t notice how affected he was to learn this - to learn that the butler had essentially served him up as an appetiser, without a word to prepare him for the shock of Lord Finch - a middle-aged balding man whose breath reeked of brandy - cornering him in one of the hallways at some point during the evening and requesting to be shown to a quiet room, “where we shan’t be disturbed.”

Puzzled, but trained to obey the will and whimsy of his betters, Richard chose the Elephant Room, thus named for one of the larger oil paintings lining the walls. The family used it only rarely and most of the furniture was covered in sheets. There, Lord Finch had promptly made his move - and before Richard could even properly recover from the surprise of having been identified as  _ one of those _ by a man he’d only offered polite smiles to go with his refreshments, he found himself bent over a table. He could guess what was coming and didn’t try to stop it, but it was still a shock to the system to be taken so unceremoniously and with so little to prepare him. The only small blessing he could find in the situation was that Lord Finch wasn’t much to write home about in terms of size or stamina. The whole thing was over and done with in less than a minute, well before Richard could even begin to try and get himself off. Less than a minute was all it took to shatter his childlike romantic notions right then and there.

He did his trousers up with trembling fingers and stumbled out, leaving a heavily breathing Lord Finch to recover from their clandestine tryst on his own and mumbling something about having to get back to work before Mr. Harris came looking for him. He’d started shaking by then and felt ill. Knowing he wouldn’t reach the attics in time and too scared to go downstairs, he’d fled into the garden and doubled over behind one of Her Ladyship’s rose bushes as he retched unproductively, feeling defiled and utterly disgusted with himself. Angry, too. At Uncle Hugh, who’d filled his head with pipe dreams when he was fourteen and completely failed to prepare him for  _ this _ .

_ Damn you _ , he remembers thinking as he stood there clutching his violently cramping stomach and tasting bile at the back of his throat.  _ Damn you to hell for making me believe in those silly ideas. What am I supposed to do with them now? _

He eventually rinsed his mouth with water from the fountain, straightened his livery and went back inside, where he was immediately told off for being empty-handed and misplacing a tray. He had a new one thrust into his numb hands and was told to get a bloody move on as the smell of some French cheese almost made him gag again. Upstairs, people were dancing and drinking without a care in the world, and Richard went around the room in a daze, offering mechanical smiles to whomever deigned to make eye contact. Much as he tried, it proved impossible to avoid Lord Finch completely as the night went on, but one or two lecherous looks aside, the man paid him little attention. It was almost enough to make him hope he’d make it until the end of the evening without having to exchange further pleasantries, but those hopes were dashed when it came time for Finch and his wife to finally leave.

“You’ll help Lady Finch and I with our coats, won’t you… Richard, was it?”

“Yes, m’lord. But I’m only a junior footman. Mr. Harris wouldn’t think it proper -”

“Come, come, we don’t stand on ceremony. Do we, darling?”

After helping Lady Finch into her fur, Richard assisted Lord Finch with his overcoat, smelling his brandy breath on him again and coming within an inch of throwing up all over His Lordship’s shoes. Unexpectedly, Finch asked him how old he was.

“S-seventeen, m’lord.”

“Seventeen, my my. A bright young prospect,” Finch slurred, while his clearly embarrassed wife tried to usher him out the door, whispering  _ come along now, Arthur, the car is waiting _ . “You’ll do well in the capital, Richard.”

The words rang in his mind long after the pair had left. He had been told the same thing before - by the people responsible for getting him the position, among others - but it was only now that they’d acquired a sinister double meaning he hadn’t considered before.

On his way back to the ballroom, dragging his feet like a condemned man headed for the gallows, he crossed paths with the first footman, a lanky, quiet bloke named Theo, who took one look at him before unexpectedly stepping in front of him, barring the way. “Go upstairs if you have to, Richard. You can’t go back in with a face like that. Take five minutes to sort yourself out - I’ll cover for you with Mr. Harris, if he asks.”

“What?” The knowing look Theo gave him made Richard’s heart sink. “How -”

“I’m sorry about Finch. I should’ve warned you, little good as it would have done. You’re not the first he did it to.” Theo glanced up and down the hallway before pulling Richard into an alcove. Bringing his voice down to a whisper, he asked, “Are you - you know…”

Petrified and wide-eyed, Richard nodded. “How did  _ he  _ figure that out, though?”

“God only knows. It’s like he’s got a sense for sniffing out the ones who won’t kick up a fuss. Like I said, he’s done it before and he gets away with it every time. Men like that, they’re above the law.” Theo glanced over his shoulder again, then leaned in close and kissed Richard on the forehead. “Chin up. Finch is about as foul as they get, but some of them are all right, you’ll see. It gets easier.”

_ Easier. _

That night, listening to his roommate’s throaty snoring as he lay awake, Richard thought of Theo’s words and considered handing in his notice to Mr. Harris the next morning and taking the first possible train back to York, even if the fare swallowed up every last penny he owned and left him destitute and without a good reference to recommend him to future employers.

“But I couldn’t go through with it, could I?” he says to Thomas, whom he’s just told all this - that is to say, the gist of it - as coherently as he can with the man’s fingers inside of him. “I’d barely been in London for two weeks, couldn’t very well go running back at the first bump in the road, not when people had stuck their necks out to get me to the capital and everyone was counting on me to do well. I couldn’t let my Mum down, most of all. I felt too soiled to face her, anyway. So I stayed.”

“Jesus, Richard.” For all his claims about not being easily shocked, Thomas looks a bit shaken. “Not exactly what I was expecting when I asked you to tell me about your youthful transgressions…”

Richard can feel him starting to withdraw his fingers, and reaches down to grasp his wrist. Seized by sudden terror that Thomas will look at him with pity - or, worse still, judge him for still being physically aroused after telling him as unpalatable a story as that. “No, don’t you stop, Thomas. Don’t you dare stop.” He feels Thomas hesitate, and prays he hasn’t miscalculated by being so revealing.

_ Jesus Christ, Ellis, are you some kind of freak for wanting to continue with this still? Are you not quite right in the head? What the fuck is wrong with you? _

Thomas doesn’t say anything of the sort, though, and the moment passes. Richard takes a deep breath.

“You’ve had your own Lord Finch and his ilk in your life, haven’t you?” Thomas bites his lip and nods. Keeps his fingers where they are. “Yeah - men that take and take and take and discard you without a second thought when they’re done. Lord Finch was my first of that sort, but I knew many more like him after, and I learned to use them just as they used me. I told you I was a quick learner.”

“I believe it.” The tension in Thomas’s hand abates, and Richard is sufficiently reassured that he slowly releases his wrist.

“It wasn’t an overnight transformation from naive country lad to… whatever you would call what I eventually became. Wasn’t a smooth road, either. Got overconfident a few times and got burned as a result, but I made the game my own. I had to, because competition is fierce. You know what London is like, especially during the season, when the city is inundated by young men seeking favour from this-or-that aristocrat or politician. And - well, there’s only so many of those to go around, isn’t there?”

“Plenty self-important men in London,” Thomas says. He’s started moving his fingers again, ever so carefully. “Very few worth having.”

“I didn’t care about worth, Thomas. I probably wasn’t like you in that respect. Once I became convinced that my uncle had fed me lies and that love wasn’t in the cards for people like us, I - well, I guess you could say I went after the next best thing. I went after it tooth and nail.”

“Sex?”

Richard smiles. “Or so I thought at the time. Took me years to gain the wisdom and perspective to realise that it was really control I wanted, and sex was merely a tool I used to procure it. I found pleasure in seducing men, in the adoration they gave me so willingly. They fed an emotional need more than a physical one, I think. I developed a talent for picking out the type of men to serve my purpose. Usually married, older, flattered by the attention. Easily manipulated.”

“Yeah. I know the type."

“Some of them were bastards, others were nice enough, just like Theo had said. I hated them almost without exception, though. And their wives, who either didn’t know or looked the other way. Hated them, too. Hated their ignorance, their blindness.”

Thomas nods. Points his fingers inside Richard and starts thrusting slowly, still not going deeper than the middle knuckles. Every time he almost slips free, he stops and spreads his fingers. Rotates his wrist. Richard exhales; lets his thighs fall wider. “Yes,” Thomas murmurs, “I bet they liked you in Soho, didn’t they? Like moths to a flame, poor buggers. Bet you had your choice of the whole sorry lot. Bet that once you figured that out, you loved the thrill of it, too - attracting that attention, playing with it, breaking a few hearts left and right. If you were anything like me -”

“I fucking loved it, Thomas.” Admitting it feels better than he’d anticipated. Almost as good as Thomas’s fingers. “An easy thing to get addicted to, isn’t it? Meaningless though it may be in hindsight.”

“Wouldn’t call it that, per se.” Thomas crosses his fingers and Richard feels him increasing the pressure behind his hand. Whines as he goes back in. “Go on. Tell me your worst.”

Richard wets his lips as Thomas slowly inserts the full length of his fingers, up to where they are thickest, then lets them rest inside him. Brows drawn up expectantly. “I guess you could say Theo took me under his wing after that. Showed me the ropes, like an older brother almost. Went to Soho a couple weeks later, me and him. First time in my life I got piss drunk. Lost sight of Theo eventually and went home with a bloke - entrepreneur of some kind. Swanky house in Mayfair. Before we went inside, he told me his wife and two sons were asleep upstairs, and if I made so much as a peep, I’d be sorry.”

“God, Richard, I hope you told him where to stick it. He can’t have been good-looking enough to make it worth the risk.”

“Younger and less repulsive than Lord Finch, albeit only by a margin.” Thomas gives him a look as if to say,  _ even I was never that stupid _ , and Richard finds it almost satisfying. “Yeah, Thomas, I went into that house. I didn’t care about any risk. In a way, I think I even welcomed it. Besides, I was off my face drunk and horny as anything. I wasn’t exactly thinking with my brains, is what I’m getting at.”

Thomas gives a little chuckle. “Right. Go on.”

“I probably needn’t tell you there wasn’t much petting or foreplay involved. He had something I wanted and vice versa, so it was a transaction, simple as that. I made him prepare me, though - I’d learned that much from my encounter with Finch. He sputtered some, I think because he didn’t much like leaving me alone in his beautiful house full of trinkets, but he relented quickly enough once I had my hand inside his trousers and around his bare prick. I told him I hadn’t had a man in months and needed him to be gentle with me, something nonsensical like that. My heart was pounding the whole time, but it worked - he crept up the stairs, disheveled and aroused as he was, to fetch some ointment or other from the bathroom.”

He pauses here for a minute to adjust as Thomas’s fingers come back to life inside him. Slowly rotating his hand at the wrist, he uncrosses his fingers, separating them and bringing them back together, gradually increasing the pressure as he does this several times. Richard gasps and tilts his hips down into the bed, his cock jerking against his belly. “Did you take anything? While he was upstairs, did you go through the drawers, have a little nosey around?”

“Not that stupid, Thomas. Not what I was after, either. The bloke was back in a jiffy anyway, and next thing I knew, I -” He has to stop for a second here before he can continue, his throat suddenly feeling tight and dry. "I was kneeling on the sofa with my trousers around my knees. I have to be honest, there was a moment there when I almost didn’t want to go through with it - when I thought it would just be like Finch all over again and couldn’t remember why I’d wanted to do this in the first place.”

“But you did go through with it,” Thomas says, and Richard nods. “Why?”

Richard feels almost physically sick remembering his state of mind that night - almost twenty years later, he can still recall so clearly the deep self-loathing that had come over him as he knelt there offering his bare arse to a stranger, the disgust so strong that he suddenly felt stone cold sober, which only compounded the sense of oncoming dread. “I think I was punishing myself.”

“What for?”

“Being the way I was,” Richard says softly, and clears his throat. “Craving that kind of attention from a man, even after what Finch did to me. In my mind, that had to mean I was somehow twisted inside. Twisted and foul, beyond redemption.”

Thomas nods slightly - he’s been there too. Of course he has. Thoughtfully, he lowers his gaze from Richard’s face to look at where they are intimately joined. Looking at what they are doing, at his fingers almost pulling out and at the give of Richard’s muscle as he goes back in, still with two. “You’re not twisted,” he murmurs, eyes slowly trailing back up. He moves his free hand from Richard’s hip to his belly, putting his palm flat against it. At the same time, he curves his fingers inside Richard to the front and presses  _ right there _ . Richard groans and tenses his belly as he rolls down his hips to increase the contact.

“We’re not twisted,” Thomas goes on. He shifts his left hand slightly lower, pressing the heel of his thumb down near the root of Richard’s cock as he angles his buried fingers upwards and nudges Richard’s prostate even more deliberately. “This isn’t twisted. It’s - God, look at you. You’re sweating.”

Richard gasps for air. Being touched in two places, inside and out, has chased all coherent thought from his mind for a moment, and the fact that Thomas now begins spearing him in earnest, granting no more respites, isn’t helping. “Story wasn’t done yet,” he finally chokes out.

He may have bitten off more than he can chew when he agreed to this, if he’s already struggling now.

“My mistake,” Thomas says. He pulls out, which is far too abrupt a change as far as Richard is concerned, but it is only to get more vaseline. It feels cool against his skin as Thomas spreads it between his cheeks before slowly pressing into his hole. With three fingers now, which makes for a bit more of an adjustment, but not by much. Richard exhales and draws up his knees, welcoming the stretch. “Go on. He prepared you?”

“Not very enthusiastically, but yeah - oh,  _ fuck  _ -” Thomas is slowly building a rhythm again, finding his bearings with three fingers instead of two, and Richard tries to take every thrust as well as he can, wetting his lips with his tongue and tasting salt. As much as he likes to be taken slowly, this is testing the limits of what even he can endure in terms of patience, but he promised Thomas to be good. He  _ wants  _ to be good for him. “When he put - when he put his cock in me - I -”

Richard’s breath stutters as Thomas settles inside him with three fingers, fully sheathed, up to his hand. Watching Richard’s face carefully as he then slowly spreads them, while he’s in deep like that; spreads them and holds still, nodding as if he’s pleased with what he’s observing. Richard brings up his hands and curls his fingers into the pillow beneath his head. Grits his teeth as he tries not to bear down on those fingers but to yield like Thomas needs him to.

“Good,” Thomas murmurs, and places his other hand back on Richard’s belly. Pets him there soothingly. “Doing beautifully, Richard - accommodating me very well. Can you breathe for me?” Richard attempts it, but his lungs are as though paralysed, so Thomas repeats, a little more firmly, “Need you to breathe, darling,” and Richard finally does, realising only now that darkness had been starting to creep in around the edges of his vision. “Thanks,” he croaks, and Thomas smiles.

“What happened when he put his cock into you?” he gently prompts, and Richard needs a second to remember where he was going with that remark.

“I felt dirty.” Richard closes his eyes at the confession, feeling blood rush to his face. Thomas slowly pulls his hand back, fingers still spread. Stops when he’s about to slip out. “I felt dirty, Thomas, and I liked it.”

Thomas is moving his fingers in place now, a steady pulse, narrowing and widening the triangle until he’s holding him open by little more than his nails. “Nice and loose, darling,” he croons, and Richard’s belly tenses against his palm. His cock so hard that it hurts.

“Then fuck me,” he breathes, forgetting himself. He rolls down his hips, trying to increase contact. Missing those fingers inside him. “Fuck me, Thomas. Please.”

“Shh… Won’t be long now.” Thomas joins his fingertips together and pushes back in, filling him in one long stroke. Richard lets out a low cry and arches his back, trying to impale himself yet further. “Tell me the rest of it. I know there’s more. Let it all out, darling.”

“I…” Richard whimpers as he feels Thomas separate the fingers he’s got buried deep inside him.  _ Nice and loose _ , Thomas’d said, and he can feel it. He can feel how well he’s taking him, accepting almost half Thomas’s hand far more easily than he’d worried he might. Thomas’s knuckles press against his rim as he hooks his fingers inside him, keeping the pressure behind his wrist just so and Richard thinks he might just weep at the feeling. Something between a gasp and a sob escapes him, and Thomas strokes his belly, pets his hip.

“Doing wonderfully, Richard, being so patient for me. Almost there, love. Almost there.” Thomas’s voice is warm and soothing like liquid caramel, gently coaxing. “Just try a bit longer. Tell me what happened next.”

“I…” Richard’s face burns as he digs his heels into the bed and angles his hips down against Thomas’s hand, shameless in his need and indignity.  _ Perhaps not so patient after all. _ “There were some pictures - I was on the sofa facing the dresser and there were these pictures, and -”

He stops here, balking at that final hurdle, not because he doesn't want to say it - he  _ does _ \- but it's the first time he’s told anyone about this and he needs a helping hand and -

And Thomas doesn't let him down.

“Can you look at me, Richard?” It’s a soft urging rather than an order, and Richard finds something in Thomas’s eyes to hold on to. Something reassuring. “What kind of pictures?”

"Family pictures.” He almost whispers it. “Pictures like my Mum had in  _ her  _ sitting room. Bloke was fucking me right in front of ‘em, pretty wife, sons all dressed up for the photographer - the whole perfect lot. I could look straight into their faces from where I was sitting, and it was -” He trails off again and tries to swallow down the sour taste clinging to the back of his throat when he remembers the spike of arousal he’d felt low in his gut once he zeroed in on those photographs. “God, Thomas - If I felt dirty before, can you imagine how seeing those damn pictures affected me?”

“Yeah, I can.” Thomas’s voice is a little tight. “Jesus, Richard -”

“And can you also imagine -” Richard grits his teeth as Thomas’s fingers drag heavily across that perfect spot within, but he is determined to finish this now, even if he has to force the words out one by one. “That I liked it. It turned me on, looking at those pictures while that bloke had his way with me. Staring that woman in the face, thinking,  _ act the happy family all you like, but look at what I can make your husband do _ .” He takes a deep breath. “It was such an ugly, spiteful thought - and it made me feel so wicked and wrong I almost came.”

“Fuck,” Thomas mutters, and he jerks his fingers inside Richard, pressing in deep and massaging in upward motions that make Richard cry out. “Fresh out of Yorkshire and straight into the underbelly of the big city, huh?”

Richard nods and takes a few moments to respond. “Yeah. Thoroughly corrupted. Hardly recognised myself, to tell you the truth.”

“Bet it also made you feel powerful, though. Seeing the lie right in front of you, knowing you had to give but one peep to make it all come crashing down.”

Richard moans. “Yeah.”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

_ “Yeah.”  _ Breathing harshly, Richard lifts up his hips and lets them drop down again ineffectually. “God, Thomas, I was so disgusted with him, with myself, the whole bloody situation. But at the same time, I -  _ Christ  _ \- the depravity of it all made me come so hard I almost blacked out.”

“Bet you weren’t quiet as you were told,” Thomas says, low. “Hadn’t learned to take it quietly yet.”

Richard remembers how the nervous man had paused mid-buggery to toss him a pillow.  _ Here, you bite down on that. There’s a good lad. _ He hadn’t resumed his thrusting until he’d convinced himself Richard was obeying, while making sure to keep the pictures in his line of sight. Not that his older lover had cottoned on to his fascination with them - he was far too enraptured by his own pleasure.  _ Aren’t you taking me well, for such a scrawny young colt,  _ he’d murmured, and Richard, who still had a long way to go in learning to control his reckless tongue, glanced over his shoulder as he retorted,  _ Bet the missus doesn’t ever take it as well as this, does she? _

Even now, he cringes at so much brazen stupidity - again, just one example where there are countless - and reckons he got off easy that time by having his head shoved forcefully into the pillow and being told in a low growl to keep his insolent mouth shut.

“No, I hadn’t,” he replies eventually, “but I caught on soon enough.”

“Yeah.” Thomas pulls his fingers almost all the way out and spreads them, spreads Richard. It’s almost as if he’s showing off at this point, but Richard suspects it’s something entirely different. “Right now I need you to do the opposite, though. I am going to fuck you in a minute, Richard Ellis, and I don’t want you to be quiet and I won’t have you muffle your moans into a pillow. There's not a living soul nearby to get an earful and we won't fucking waste the luxury. I want to hear every sound you make loud and clear, do you understand?”

“Yeah… yeah, Thomas.” Richard nods, attempting to wet his dry lips with an equally dry tongue. The promise is not a difficult one to make, and he feels a jolt of anticipation in his gut when Thomas pulls out and reaches for the jar beside him, his intent plain as day. Richard lifts his head to watch as Thomas prepares himself, slicking his cock. Being more impressive in girth than in length, he is thorough with it; seems to be overdoing it almost, dawdling at the task, until Richard reaches out and touches his wrist. Says softly, “I think you’re quite ready, love.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Thomas reiterates, almost defensively, and he wipes his hand on his thigh. He is nervous, Richard realises.

“You won’t, sweetheart. You’ve been very good so far, very good with those fingers. Made me feel so good.” As he pulls his hand back, he draws his fingers along Thomas’s cock. Thomas hadn’t quite lost his erection when Richard told him about Lord Finch, but he’d visibly softened some. Now, he’s fully hard once more and raring to go. As Richard has been for quite some time.

“You’re not worried at all, are you?” Thomas asks as he closes the jar and tosses it aside. There’s something like awe and wonder in his eyes as he takes in the way Richard is sprawled out in front of him.

“No,” Richard says, giving him a reassuring smile that is entirely unaffected, “I know I’m in good hands. My only worry is that I won’t last half as long as I would like.”

“Hmmm.” Mirroring Richard’s earlier gesture, Thomas brushes his fingers along the straining shaft of Richard’s cock. “Are you saying you need a minute?”

“Thomas, I swear to God -” Richard moans and lifts his hips, rubbing himself against those teasing fingers without a care to give for his dignity. “If you make me wait one more second, I'm gonna walk out that door and finish myself off in the bathroom.”

Thomas chuckles and lightly wraps his fingers around him, pressing his thumb just below the head. “As if you could at this point. Walk, that is. I’m sure the other thing’d be no problem.”

Richard gives him a look of exasperation, but can’t keep himself from laughing. The man probably has a point there, and besides - he likes Thomas cocky. “I will have my revenge, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas clacks his tongue. “You're hardly in a position to give me any cheek right now, Mr. Ellis. You're in a position to take whatever I choose to give you.” He releases Richard’s prick and takes his own in hand, giving himself an idle stroke or two as he lets his eyes trail upwards along Richard’s torso. “Look at you. Haven't ever seen a man wanting as beautifully as you do.”

“Haven’t ever wanted a man like I want you.”

Richard sometimes worries he’s letting fond little truths like these slip far too often, but he decides every time that the reward of Thomas ducking his head and letting out a soft “oh” of surprise and embarrassment far outweighs any risk. Anyroad, his evident discomfort in receiving praise and affection only means he hasn’t had enough of either in his life by a long shot.

“There you go again,” he mutters, a shy smile pulling at his mouth, “saying things to make me blush. You do that a lot.”

“You can tell me to tone it down at any time.”

“Didn’t say I wanted you to.” Thomas strokes the inside of Richard’s thigh thoughtfully. “Rather like it. And, er… feeling’s mutual.”

It is hardly the time to dwell on what they’ve just told each other, but Richard can’t fully suppress a delighted grin regardless. While not a man of grand declarations, Thomas does occasionally drop hints, crumbs merely, of all that which is brewing underneath the surface, and Richard knows that even that almost nonchalantly delivered  _ feeling’s mutual  _ comes from a place of affection. Thomas does feel - God, does he  _ feel  _ \- but he can’t always express.

“If that is the case, then - why don’t you go ahead and fuck me already,” Richard smiles at the audible stutter in Thomas’s breath, “lover?”

Thomas groans as he moves in on his knees and lines himself up against Richard’s entrance. “You know damn well I can’t deny you anything when you call me that, Ellis. You’re a bloody menace and no mistake.”

“You don’t know the half of it yet.” Richard breathes out slowly as Thomas’s cock begins pressing into him. “Do you - oh,  _ God _ , Thomas - do you want to hear about all the married men I went after out of spite? Husbands, fathers - men who had families, like the one I saw in those pictures that night.”

Thomas doesn’t respond straight away. It isn’t clear whether he’s even heard him. His gaze is on where they are joined, mesmerised as he guides himself inside. “Look at that,” he murmurs, “look at you, Richard, oh my God -”

His mouth is slack with awe, his gaze intensely focused, and it’s so evident that he’s  _ enjoying  _ this, revelling in it even, and there’s nothing Richard wants to see more right now. “Good, love?”

Thomas bites his lip for a moment, then nods. “Wish you could see what I’m seeing.”

“That’s okay, Thomas, I wouldn’t trade my view for anything. I like looking at you when we’re intimate. Love what pleasure looks like on that expressive face of yours.”

He cuts himself off there.  _ Richard Ernest Ellis,  _ he can hear his Mum and every teacher he’s ever had saying in exasperation,  _ always flapping your mouth when you shouldn’t be. _

A chatterbox, Thomas had called him, but he’d said it in a fond way that suggested he didn’t judge him for it - perhaps even betrayed a little admiration. The smile Thomas gives him now expresses a similar brand of amusement and wonder at Richard’s gift of gab, and the slow curl of his mouth makes Richard’s heart stutter.

“No need to sweet-talk me, Mr. Ellis - in case you’d forgotten, I'm already in your bed.”

Once the head is in, Thomas stops. Closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and visibly tries to relax his shoulders. Almost as if just being those first few inches inside could be enough to tip him over the edge, and Richard finds the thought kindles something in him, something so unlike what he felt with all those other men in years gone by. He’d been going down a dark path for a while, seeking validation for all the wrong, misguided reasons and discarding it just as easily, but he’s older now. Wants different things. And nothing about this is like anything he’s had before. It is different and eye-opening and  _ new  _ and he is gobbling it up like a child eating itself sick on candy at the country fair.

Thomas finally opens his eyes, one hand still holding his cock, the other stroking slowly at Richard’s thigh. “Are you all right?”

Richard smiles and nods, lifting one leg up to rub Thomas’s flank with the inside of his knee. “Better than all right,” he says, truthfully. He had forgotten about the rush being filled gives him, that pull of pleasure and elation deep down in his belly at being taken, but it’s better than he remembers even, his senses heightened and responding to every twitch, every brush of skin against skin - and Thomas is always generous with those. “But don’t stop there, love. Here -” He reaches out and pulls Thomas closer by the shoulders, raising his other leg and slipping his calves around Thomas’s waist. “Go on,” he whispers and Thomas gives in with a groan, slowly pressing deeper while Richard draws his hands up and down his back murmuring  _ there you are Thomas, feels so good, love. _

This time, Thomas doesn’t stop until he bottoms out, moaning softly with his mouth open against Richard’s neck, spreading wet kisses along the slope of his shoulder while Richard runs trembling fingers through his hair, caresses the damp nape of his neck. Waiting for him to get his bearings and lift his head so he can see his face. “Are you well, love?”

“You’re asking me?” Thomas lets out a breathy chuckle, and it breaks a spell, in a good way. Richard joins in, because it’s so easy. Thomas  _ makes  _ it so easy.

“I’m good, Thomas, never you worry. You prepared me so very well.”

Thomas kisses his temple, his jaw. Presses their foreheads together and rests like that for a moment, breathing against Richard’s mouth. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, “just - incredible, Richard, so lovely and patient and - and -” He raises his head to look at Richard, who suddenly has trouble catching his next breath. “Bloody hell, you’re so  _ warm _ .”

“Fuck,” Richard mutters, and pulls Thomas down to him for a kiss. “Stop saying things like that if you want this to last longer than ten seconds.”

Thomas’s ensuing laughter spoils the kiss but not the mood, and he pulls away to let it out - hearty, freeing laughter from his belly. “Oh my God, this feels so good,  _ you  _ feel so good.” His laughter eventually abates and he strokes the side of Richard’s face with an earnest, almost pensive expression. “I never knew it could be like this. Did you?”

Richard shakes his head. Clears his throat to make sure his voice doesn’t fail him. “Sometimes… sometimes I feel like I've been waiting for you all my life, Thomas.”

Something shifts in Thomas’s face at that, and he closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, Richard can tell just by looking into those blue irises that he’s touched a chord somewhere deep beneath that sometimes inscrutable bolster. “You’re not playing fair, Ellis. Can’t tell me to stop spilling the contents of my heart when you’re not willing to keep to the same rules.” And with that, the time for idle chat appears to be over, because he slowly rolls his hips back a fraction, watching Richard’s face closely as he waits a second before executing a first, shallow thrust. Richard gasps.

“I’ve - I’ve a bit of a reputation for that, as it so happens.”

Not  _ quite  _ over after all, perhaps.

Thomas repeats the movement - pulls back a little further, thrusts back in a little quicker. “Not playing by the rules?”

“That - and being a sentimental fool. Offering my heart lock, stock and barrel to the men I fall for.”

“You’re not a fool.”

“Been called worse than that.”

“Who by?” For a second, Thomas looks offended on his behalf. “Any of those married men you mentioned?”

Richard hesitates briefly - out of all shameful stories in his repertoire, is this one he should be telling this very minute? “One in particular comes to mind.”

Thomas cups the side of Richard’s neck. Every time he rocks his hips into him, filling him with his cock, Richard can feel his world narrowing a little more, his coherency slipping. “One you fell for?” Richard nods again, resting his hand at the dip of Thomas’s lower back. This, too, is something he’s never told anyone, but since he’s spilling his guts to the man as it is, there isn’t a bone in his body that thinks of refusing when Thomas rasps, “Who, Richard?”

“Can’t remember if I told you -” He pauses to take Thomas’s next thrust, moaning as he does. “I served as a batman from mid ‘15 til artillery fire sent me home the next year.”

“Wrote about it.” Thomas lowers his hand to where Richard’s neck meets his chest, splaying his fingers across the collarbone. “Didn’t give the bloke’s name, I don’t think.”

“Blake. Lieutenant Colonel Blake.”

“God, Richard, tell me you didn’t -”

“I  _ did _ .”

“You fucking set your cap at the  _ commanding officer _ ?”

“No.” Richard groans as Thomas’s hips snap into him. “I just told you, Thomas, I fell for the bloke. I didn’t exactly plan for it to happen.”

The expression on Thomas’s face is a strange blend of fascination, horror and pity. Richard can’t blame him for any of those. “Loved him?”

“Yeah. Thought I did, at any rate. God, Thomas, you know better than anyone what war does to a man. You were  _ there _ . There’s still nights when I wake up in a pool of my own sweat because those fucking trenches are ensconced in my brain and won’t ever go away -”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, quiet. He  _ was  _ there, and he does know.

“I was barely a day over twenty-three when I was drafted. One day I was carrying trays of food and polishing silverware and the next - I had no idea, Thomas. No fucking idea.”

“None of us did.”

“I don’t know how I didn’t go batty in there. I swear to God I almost did. The winters - God, the  _ winters _ . Hate them to this day.”

He is talking too much, he can feel it, but Thomas lets him, trusting there is a point he will be circling back to.  _ Right - Blake. _

“I loved the man because I wanted to believe I did, Thomas. Fucked up, I know. But it was the only thing that made me feel... human, for a while, even if he was a bastard in the end.”

Thomas kisses him, and for a moment there exists nothing but that - the warmth and taste of his mouth, and the continuous, controlled rotations of his hips, already driving Richard mad with the need for a faster pace. “How’d it end?”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Richard says, because he can’t ever answer a simple question simply. “With artillery shelling in the hell of the Somme. With a letter I received when convalescing in Sussex. But if you mean just the physical relationship - that ended after I let him fuck me on his desk at his country estate with his children playing in the nursery downstairs.”

“Sounds somewhat familiar, that.”

“Yeah.” Richard’s mouth twitches bitterly. “Perhaps not such a quick learner, after all.”

Thomas gives him a fond smile. “And here I was thinking  _ I _ had a knack for picking out the biggest scoundrels,” he says, clearly teasing, and Richard chuckles self-deprecatingly.

“Oh I’d say we're well-matched, Mr. Barrow, you and I.”

“Aren’t we just,” Thomas agrees, low and soft and sincere, and before Richard can carve out a moment to reflect on the sense of relief he’s left with after letting out some of the darkness he’s been carrying deep within all these years, Thomas kisses him again, intently and messily, and Richard responds in kind, drawing his hands up along Thomas’s back and then away, stretching them towards the headboard of the bed, because he senses he’s about to need the support.

“Love that,” Thomas growls as he leans up to gaze at him. “Love how you enjoy yourself like this.”

“Love how you fuck me,” Richard counters breathlessly, and takes note of how the words affect Thomas - the throbbing of his cock is a powerful tell. “Love how you fill me, Thomas.”

Another frantic kiss, and Thomas pulls his knees up under him, sitting back on his haunches, Richard’s legs still hooked around his waist. His mouth is flushed red and his hair is falling into his eyes and Richard’s heart aches just to look at him. “Pull your knees up,” he tells him, a gentle order Richard obeys without a second thought. “Spread them, love. That’s it…  _ beautiful. _ ” He pets Richard’s thigh and Richard whimpers, feeling utterly debauched like this, laid out wide and willing and fully impaled. Thomas then grasps the base of his own cock, just two or three fingers around the root of him, and squeezes.

It - oh.

_ Oh. _

“Feel that?” Thomas asks, voice tight. Richard struggles for breath to answer. “Do you feel that, Richard?”

“Yeah.” Richard licks his lips. His throat so dry that it hurts to swallow. “I feel that, Thomas, God…”

“Want me to do it again?”

Richard moans. He can’t help it - it’s the only response he’s capable of for the time being, but Thomas can be patient and wait for him to scrape together some coherency. He uses his free hand to stroke Richard’s hip and stomach, finally taking his cock in a loose grasp and giving it one or two idle strokes before pulling away and leaving Richard aching. “God, Thomas,  _ please _ ,” he chokes out, frustrated at how in control Thomas seems when Richard feels like he’s about to come apart at the seams, “you have to be as desperate for it as I am.”

“I could keep fucking you like this all night long if necessary,” Thomas says, and Richard doesn’t doubt for a second that he could. “Now tell me - do you want me to do it again?”

“Yes,” Richard grits out. “I want you to do it again, Thomas,  _ please  _ -”

“Good,” Thomas murmurs, and squeezes himself again. Richard jerks and feels Thomas’s free hand settle on his thigh as, after a moment, Thomas pulls back like that ever so slowly. Richard whimpers, “No,” but Thomas murmurs at him not to worry. Still pinching himself with the one hand, he slides the other underneath Richard’s buttock and then guides himself back in at a slightly different angle, dragging the head of his cock directly over Richard’s prostate. Richard’s mouth drops open on a sharp inhalation, and when Thomas repeats the move in the opposite direction, the exhalation is a cry of pleasure.

“Yeah,” Thomas murmurs as he thrusts in again, still assisting with his fingers. His aim is impeccable, and another cry rips from Richard’s lungs. “That’s it, darling. That’s it…”

Richard can’t remember the last time anyone fucked him so diligently, if indeed anyone ever did. With every inward thrust of Thomas’s cock he can feel himself unraveling, the heat and pressure in his belly building, and he somehow manages to plant his heels into the bed and take at least some agency back, however little and however temporarily, by lifting his hips and meeting Thomas’s next thrust.

“ _ Good _ , Richard,” Thomas encourages, “keep at it,” so Richard does, bracing his hands against the headboard and pushing himself up on his shoulders and feet as he desperately drives himself down on Thomas’s cock. He soon starts to tremble with the effort of it, but the angle is so goddamn exquisite that he can’t bring himself to stop and Thomas gives support as best he can with one hand underneath his arse, keeping mostly still as Richard impales himself over and over like a man entranced.

“God, Richard, can’t believe how incredible you look like this,” Thomas eventually chokes out. “Love watching you fuck yourself on my prick. Most erotic thing I ever saw.”

Richard grinds his teeth together and channels every shred of strength he has into controlling the pace, delaying the inevitable, but it’s building to a breaking point and truth be told, it’s a wonder he’s lasted this long to begin with. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” he finally wheezes, hips stuttering erratically, “I can’t, I have to - I’m sorry,” but Thomas shakes his head. He isn’t looking so collected anymore, himself.

“Are you ready to come for me?”

Richard nods and tries to push himself down on Thomas’s cock yet again because he  _ can’t fucking help himself _ , but his movements lack finesse now and Thomas stops him. “Please… please, Thomas, may I -?”

“You may.” Thomas brings his hand up and slides it along Richard’s thigh and hip. Takes in the state of him, the way his cock curves back against his stomach heavy and swollen. “D’you need a hand, or do you want to do it all on your own? Take care of yourself riding my prick as I watch?”

The man isn’t joking.

He seems to even enjoy the idea.

Not that Richard  _ doesn’t _ .

“Fuck, whichever gets me off the fastest.”

It isn’t a particularly subtle answer, but things being as they are, Richard is hardly in a position - quite literally - to be coy about what he wants. Thomas smirks at him a moment and then, staring straight into his eyes, brings his hand to his mouth and licks the open palm before wrapping it securely around Richard’s prick and stroking upward. Richard groans low in his chest and pushes his hips up towards him, knowing full well he’s being wanton and unable to care. He feels Thomas’s eyes on him the whole time, watching intently.

Thomas strokes him in the opposite direction, tip to root. Then up again, this time slowly twisting his hand at the wrist as he does. It sends a jolt through Richard’s limbs, and he reaches down to let his hand join Thomas’s, guiding the pace. He curses when Thomas’s cock nudges him just right, and Thomas’s eyes gleam. “... Yes?” he asks.

“Yes,” Richard gasps, relieved, as their joined hands move in tandem, and he moans through his teeth as he rolls his hips up and down Thomas’s prick at the perfect angle, trembling legs be damned. His body pulls taut, heat coiling behind this navel. Quickly building to a point of release. “Oh, fuck,  _ yes  _ -”

He pushes at the headboard and uses his shoulders for leverage as he arches off the bed. Can hear Thomas moaning as he impales himself once more, cockhead lodged in exactly the right place. One more downward stroke of their joined hands and he’s coming,  _ finally _ , erupting all over himself as he cries out Thomas’s name loudly enough to surely make it echo throughout the empty house. Even in that moment, he can appreciate the almost rebellious sense of satisfaction it gives him to let his cries of pleasure ring out freely and uncensored.

“Fuck, Richard,” Thomas grits out while Richard slowly collapses, boneless and sweetly hurting all over, “that was - fuck -”

Thomas hasn’t come yet. Breathing hard, he starts to pull out, presumably to finish himself off, but Richard shakes his head - he doesn’t have the energy for anything more. “No. Keep going.”

“But -”

“Don’t  _ argue _ , Thomas,” Richard cuts him off, and Thomas obeys with a groan, pitching himself forward and supporting himself on his elbows as he thrusts in. Clearly holding back at first, but Richard’s appreciative moans spur him into a faster pace until he is thrusting in abandon, face buried against the side of Richard’s neck.

“Oh, shit, Richard, so close -”

At this, Richard grasps his head between both hands and pulls it up so he can look at him and drink in every nuance of his expression as he loses himself. He nods. “In me,” he says, “do it in me.”

“Are you - ah - are you sure?”

“ _ Please _ , love,” Richard whimpers, not sure how much more emphatic he can be about how badly he wants this, but it might just be that this is what pushes Thomas over the edge, as he thrusts in hard two or three more times before Richard feels him throb and then a first rush of warmth deep within. Surprisingly, Thomas keeps his eyes open the whole time, staring at Richard as he fucks him through his orgasm, moaning as he does. Richard feels pinned by those eyes, piercing right through the core of him, and it's all he can do to stare back, to try and hold the weight of that gaze as long as he can, in the hope he'll never forget this moment until the day he dies - hopefully of old age, in his sleep, with Thomas beside him.

When it’s over, Thomas kisses him - a lazy, languorous kiss - and eventually rolls off of him, his softening cock slipping out and leaving a sticky trail cooling on his thigh as Thomas slumps down on the bed beside him, reaching out and placing a heavy hand on Richard’s stomach to keep some sort of physical connection intact. Coincidentally, though, it’s Richard’s stomach that’s borne the brunt of his messy climax and while he is in no hurry to get up and do something about it for his own comfort, he  _ is _ aware of it.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, but Thomas shushes him and chuckles, low and lazy.

“Don’t worry about it, Ellis, and shut up, just this once.”

Gently admonished, Richard smiles and closes his eyes, giving himself over to postorgasmic bliss. He feels incredible, utterly relaxed, and once he allows his thoughts to float aimlessly, lulled by Thomas’s calm breathing beside him, it isn’t long before he can feel his mind - along with every conscious thought it might conjure at a time like this - start slipping away like driftwood on a gently flowing river.

When he opens his eyes again, it is to find the light changed - Thomas must’ve switched the bedside lamp on, as it casts a warm glow against the walls that wasn’t there before - and a warm, damp cloth gently being drawn across his stomach and between his legs. A very nice way of waking up, if not a little mystifying at first.

Wielding the cloth, kneeling beside him, is Thomas, and his mouth tilts into an affectionate, somewhat shy smile when he sees Richard looking at him, but he doesn’t stop what he is doing, and his hands are so gentle, the touch so lovely and soothing, that Richard could easily fall asleep again just like that. But he doesn’t. He returns Thomas’s smile, not a thought in his head other than that he has never felt this safe and cared for in his entire adult life.

“I love you.” He feels Thomas’s hands stilling, sees his smile faltering. He doesn’t regret saying it, though. Not one bit. Quite to the contrary, he wants to say it again, but he doesn’t. He waits for Thomas to get his bearings. Giving him time. That’s all Thomas needs sometimes, for Richard to shut up and give him some time.

“You’re only saying that because I just gave you cock like you haven’t had it in almost ten years,” Thomas says. Trying to joke it off, and rather crassly at that, but there is insecurity lurking underneath. Richard smiles, unperturbed and steady, and closes his eyes as Thomas plunges the cloth into a bucket he’s only now realising has been placed next to the bed and wrings it out before applying it between his thighs. “The water’s warm,” he murmurs, “how’d you do it?”

“You were knocked out good and proper,” Thomas says by way of explanation. “I had the time, and I didn’t want you to wake up and be cold.” He is thorough, and Richard parts his legs helpfully, almost sighing in bliss when Thomas pays gentle attention to his most tender bits. It doesn’t even occur to him to offer to do this himself - being taken care of feels too good. “Hey - Richard?”

“Mmm. Yeah?”

“I only want you to know -” He hears Thomas swallow with difficulty, and opens his eyes to look at him. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone is free to picture Richard's friend Theo however they like, but I couldn't not share that athens7 and I have decided to fancast him as the young Colin Firth in _Another Country_ (1984).


	24. Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags: referenced suicidal thoughts + attempt, referenced self-harm, scars... yeah. shit gets heavy
> 
> athens7: thank you for your help with this<3

“I feel quite humbled.” Richard gives a self-deprecating little chuckle. His cheek pressed to Thomas’s chest, almost directly over his heart, his hair tickling Thomas’s chin. Thomas finds he can’t be bothered to lift a hand and smooth it out of the way. He is too drowsy, too fucked out and the sensation isn’t even an altogether unpleasant one, at that.

“Oh?” he prompts, low and lazy, when an elaboration isn’t immediately forthcoming.

“Mmm. Orgasm I gave you that night at Downton can’t have been half as good as this.”

Thomas hums, feeling pleased. He might have grown an inch or two at the compliment, were it not for the fact that he’s sprawled out in bed, one gorgeous naked man curled up against - and around - him. They’ve been like this for the past ten minutes or so, after getting under the blankets shivering from the cold that’s now also reached the bedroom. Pressed together skin to skin, legs entwined to share as much body heat as possible, they’ve managed to create a pocket of warmth under the covers for the two of them.

Very nice.

“Had no complaints, ‘s I recall.”

“Still. You’ve... raised the bar.” Richard kisses his chest and settles back into his previous position. Fingers performing a slow, thoughtful dance on the skin of Thomas’s flank, between his ribcage and his hipbone. What weight he would dearly like to shed sits there and on his belly, but he isn’t about to draw attention to it by whinging. It is hardly the time to be self-conscious about the signs of middle age approaching, even if he has yet to discover similar signs in Richard’s physique - other than the crinkles by his eyes when he laughs, the man doesn’t look a day over thirty. Must be because he smiles a lot - happy people live longer, doesn’t he remember reading that somewhere?

Richard’s talking again. Chatty, that one, even after sex. _Especially_ after sex.

“I owe you one as good as what you gave me - I daren’t say better, because I truly doubt it could be improved upon, but -”

“For fuck’s sake, Ellis, will you stop keeping these ridiculous tallies?” Thomas rolls his eyes, but smiles, secretly flattered to know his performance has been weighed and judged adequate - by a man of Richard’s experience, no less. “Besides, we’ve barely recovered from our previous tryst and you’re already thinking about the next one? Need I remind you we’re not that young anymore?”

Richard grins against his chest, and Thomas feels a flash of worry. God, if Richard is thinking Thomas has it in him to go more than once in one night, he must temper his expectations and soon.

“Haven’t you heard? Age is only a number.”

He would say that, of course. Christ, he probably even _believes_ it.

“Funny how it’s only ever older people saying that to make themselves feel better. You’ll never hear a young person use that silly phrase.”

“Thirty-eight is hardly decrepit, Thomas.”

“It’s too old to be acting a lovestruck fool, that’s for sure.” Thomas’s lips twitch, and Richard curls his fingers around his hipbone.

“Is that what you are?”

“I -” Thomas falters a moment, and Richard lifts his head to look at him, which paralyses his tongue even more, but he mans up. “It is, yeah.” And after a brief hesitation, “First bloke I’ve said it to in a long time.”

Something shifts in Richard’s eyes at these words. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. First one ever to say it back.”

Seeing as how the Duke of bloody Crowborough had only ever verbalised his ‘most ardent regard’ in letters - and those are all ashes now. _How fucking appropriate._

He hasn’t thought of Philip in a while. Last he heard, the bastard sired a couple daughters with his American heiress. Almost completely bald nowadays, if the rumours tell it true. Rich as Croesus, though, so that ought to make him happy.

“Well, it’s a good look on you.” Richard cups his cheek and kisses him softly. Mouths at his bottom lip and gives him a hint of tongue before pulling away and propping his chin in his hand. A little mischief brewing in his eyes. “And if it’s any consolation, I hardly think you could’ve fucked me this well when you were a lad of twenty. Takes a bit of age and experience - and the confidence that comes with it - to make a man come like that.”

Thomas can’t find fault in that argument and kisses him back, cupping his jaw. “Could get used to it,” he admits.

“Could you?” Richard asks, a tad breathless. “Good.”

“What about you?” Thomas asks, nonchalant. “Ever said it to a bloke before?”

“Christ, maybe once or twice to a chap I was infatuated with back in York, when I was so green it hardly counted.” Richard smiles, at some long-forgotten fond memory perhaps, and Thomas finds himself wishing he had more of those, himself.

“And that military man - Blake?” Thomas hopes he isn’t overstepping with the question. Richard hadn’t exactly held back talking about him earlier, but he wants to be mindful not to rip open old wounds. “Sure sounded like you were keen on him.”

Richard nods thoughtfully. “‘Keen’ is certainly one word for it. Yeah, I wanted to tell him, but I never did. Never got the chance to. Mind you, he would’ve killed me if I had, and not just in the figurative sense, I fear.”

“Why?” Thomas puzzles over these words for a moment. “Too _respectable_ a man to be seen at a French brothel, so he used you for the odd convenient fuck? Did he make you pretend to be a woman?”

“I don’t see how he could have done, with his hand or his mouth on my prick.” Thomas’s eyes widen, and Richard smiles faintly. “I don’t know, Thomas, it was complicated. _He_ was complicated, and to this day I couldn’t tell you what exactly, if anything, he felt for me. But the man had a temper on him, and if I had so much as breathed the words… well, let’s just say they wouldn’t have gone over well.”

Thomas would be lying if he said he’d never come across men like this Blake fellow himself, so in a way none of this is terribly surprising, but at the same time it never ceases to amaze him how callously men of that sort toy with the feelings of younger, far less experienced men who clearly idolise them. He kisses Richard and caresses the side of his face. “His loss.”

“I wrote him letters from the convalescent home, desperate letters in which I poured out my feelings, but I daredn’t send them. I posted just the one, begging him to take me on after the war, as his valet or a footman or - anything, really. I would’ve taken any job if it meant being near him in some capacity.”

_Well, doesn’t that sound familiar._

These days, Thomas wouldn’t be Philip Villiers’ _anything_ even if they paid him ten times the wages, but back then, he’d have handed in his notice to Carson laughing and dancing a jig if it meant a place in the Duke’s circle and affections, so what Richard is saying rings almost uncomfortably close to home. “I reckon he wasn’t inclined to make you an offer.”

“You reckon right. Dreadfully cold about it, too. And I was already in a bad state to begin with, so getting a letter like that, it - well, it broke my heart, Thomas. My Mum, she - she’d come all the way over, visited every day. She said she’d never seen me like that, neither before nor after. She -” He stumbles on his next words unexpectedly and swallows, collecting himself. Thomas reaches for his hand, heart heavy with suspicion. Richard had told him about his stint at the convalescent home, that first night they’d spent together back at Downton, even if he’d provided precious little detail.

 _I was very, very angry_ , were the words he’d used to describe his state of mind at the time. Thomas hadn't found it hard to believe, having seen soldiers return from the front with all sorts of emotional problems, but at the same time he almost couldn't picture Richard that way. But apparently he had lashed out at some poor nurse at one time. _Most shameful thing I've ever done._ Trust Richard Ellis to find the care and strength to feel guilty about something so trivial, at a time when he'd been on the brink of death from sepsis and heartbreak over some unworthy son of a -

“It’s all right,” he says softly, “you can tell me.”

“She later confided in me - she begged the doctors to have a nurse sit by my bed every night, she was that scared I’d -”

He trails off again and this time Thomas doesn’t insist. He feels ill, and kisses Richard’s hand in hopes that it’ll chase away the feeling. “I know,” he says hoarsely. “I knew blokes like that, spoke to blokes like that, when the hospital was overflown, and later the Abbey - there were so many. Shell-shocked, disfigured… men who escaped with little more than their lives. Woke up drenched in their own cold sweat, weeping like babies.” His mind veers for a moment to the unfortunate Mr. Lang, who wandered around like a ghost by the end. He wonders what became of him.

Richard gives a stilted nod. Eyes distant, mind clearly lost in some dark memory. “I probably needn’t tell you they didn’t have nurses to spare to sit by the bedside of every man with a death wish.”

“No… no, indeed, you needn’t. As a matter of fact, I - I knew a bloke who…” He catches himself mid-sentence, but it’s too late, Richard’s gaze snaps back into focus. “Ah, never you mind, ’s you we were talking about.”

“We’ve talked about me quite enough. Tell me.” Richard squeezes his fingers. “He was someone… special, to you?”

“I don’t know.” It sounds entirely wrong, and Thomas shakes his head as he corrects himself. “I mean _yes_ , he was… special, and whenever we talked, I felt there was something there. A connection, if you like. Friendship, possibly. Even though he was a brainy Oxford kid and not working class, it didn’t feel like there was a divide gaping between us.”

“War has a way of blurring the divisions like nothing else I’ve come across,” Richard says, and they are both silent for a minute, each thinking of the men who taught them the truth in those words.

“Edward, Lieutenant Courtenay, he - he was in line for some inheritance. Never told me what it was exactly… don’t think he gave a fig. He’d wanted to become a farmer, but the war torpedoed that dream good and proper. Mustard gas.” Richard looks at him with a pained expression, no words necessary. “Before the war, he was a healthy young bloke, life ahead of him, and now… He was angry, angry and depressed. Like you were.” He lifts his eyebrows uncertainly, and Richard nods to indicate he’ll not shy away from the subject. Encouraging him to continue, however much instinct tells him to avoid it.

“But he grew to trust me, me and Nurse Crawley both. We tried, we really tried to help him build up his spirits, and it was an uphill battle but at least it was _up_.” Richard nods, not speaking but waiting for Thomas to continue when he’s ready. He knows this tale will not have a good ending.

“They - they were going to send him away.” Thomas tastes bitter gall rising in his throat. “Management glanced at his chart and decided he no longer needed to be occupying a hospital bed, and that was that. Nothing we said, no concern we raised about his mental state made any bloody difference. Patch ‘em up and send ‘em along, with nothing to prepare them for what came after. The psychological trauma those men went through -”

“Including yourself,” Richard corrects him gently, and takes his mangled hand. Caresses the backs of his fingers. “Don’t underplay your own sacrifice, Thomas. No man of sane mind would willingly get his hand shot off unless he was pushed to the very limit of human endurance.”

Thomas almost pulls back his hand. Almost reminds him it was a calculated move - a bid for survival - and not altruism that made him volunteer for the medical corps, and that there have been times in the past when he wished he’d stuck his head out over the parapet that night instead of his hand. But at the same time as he’s thinking all this, he realises Richard’s steadfast compassion and reassurances are beginning to erode, gradually and patiently like water flowing over rock, some of the certainty about his own cowardice. But it is human nature to cling to any type of certainty for the support and security it provides, however false. “You and your pretty words, Ellis - you missed your calling as a diplomat and no mistake.”

Richard smiles, unflappable even in the face of Thomas’s waspishness. “You weren’t done telling me about Lieutenant Courtenay,” he carefully prompts, and Thomas experiences a familiar feeling of his guard going up, tension sitting like a stone lodged in his stomach, heavy and getting heavier.

“Not much left to tell,” he says evasively. “He killed himself, if you hadn’t guessed. Smuggled a razor into bed and cut his wrists.”

He can’t tell if his bluntness shocks Richard at all - he seems saddened but not surprised by the outcome. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been devastating. All the more so because it sounds like it could have been prevented.”

By all accounts, Richard’s sympathy should have been like balm. As it is, Thomas finds he can barely endure it. He is starting to crave a cigarette, never a good sign. “You know as well as I that his story wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. There were thousands like him.”

“Not to his parents, or any siblings he may have had.” Richard isn’t letting this go, but he’s being so fucking kind and understanding that it’s hard to berate him for it. “And from what I’m hearing, not to you.” As he says this, he grasps Thomas’s hand more fully, covering the back of it with his palm and slowly turning it over. There is resistance in Thomas’s wrist - not only his wrist, come to think of it, it’s running up his whole arm and hardens his shoulder. His gloved palm is turned upward, but it isn’t his disfigured hand that’s on the forefront of his mind, it’s the pattern of parallel scars on the inside of his wrist. The very ones Richard now lowers his eyes towards and traces with his thumb ever so lightly.

The rock in his stomach expands, pressing into his diaphragm and making breathing difficult. He jerks his hand back, reclaiming it instinctively, Richard's gentleness a needle he can feel poking uncomfortably at his skin but it isn't enough to ease the vise around his lungs so he scrambles up into a sitting position blanket slipping off and pooling in his lap but the chilly air is a welcome slap on his chest, makes him feel less claustrophobic, less trapped, if only his throat didn't feel so tight, if only he could get enough _air_ -

The sudden scuffle catches Richard off guard, and he follows suit a moment later and sits up, reaching for Thomas’s clawing hand and gently prying it away from his chest. “Thomas -” His voice is soft, apologetic. “Thomas, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have -”

“You think that’s what I did?” Thomas asks hoarsely. His hand sits stiff and uneasy between Richard’s fingers, but he doesn’t pull it back this time. “You think I took a razor and slit my wrists because that’s what he did? Like some pair of starcrossed lovers in a Shakespearean double suicide?”

“No,” Richard says, almost inaudibly, “your scars don’t look old enough to me to be from that long ago.”

“You seem to have given this a fair amount of thought.”

“I notice things about you, Thomas.” Richard continues speaking softly, and it somehow helps Thomas to focus on something other than his own strained breathing. “I try not to pry, but I notice things. My fingers noticed your scars, that night in Downton last July, but it wouldn’t have been proper to ask - we barely knew one another, after all. Perhaps you will decide to tell me one day, perhaps you won’t. But I will never judge you. How could I? I know what losing the will to live feels like.”

“Did you -”

Richard shakes his head. “No, I haven’t got any scars to prove it. Too much of a coward. But I stumbled around like a dead man for weeks at the Somme, praying to God He would reach out His hand to me and take me before I had to endure another winter out there. I didn’t try to take my own life, Thomas, but I sure as hell got careless with it towards the end.”

“Haven't got scars to prove it? What's this then?” Thomas pulls Richard to him and reaches around, laying his fingers against the rough scar tissue on his lower back. He stares into Richard’s surprised face, anger rising up inside him unreasonably. “You’ve been carrying _this_ around for over ten years and yet you dare call yourself a coward? You think it takes courage to lie down in a bath and slice open your veins? I guarantee you enough pain and despair will do it, no courage required.”

Richard makes a small sound from his throat, but is otherwise silent as he gazes wide-eyed at Thomas, who catches himself in what he’s doing and ruefully withdraws his hand. “God, I’m - I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “that was harsh.”

“If anyone needs apologise, Thomas, it’s me.” Richard’s shoulders slump slightly, guilt sitting grave on his face. “I was tactless and overstepped the mark. Pushed you to reveal something so personal before you were ready. I’m sorry.”

“Well. Now you know.” Thomas leans back heavily into the headboard, defeated, fingers playing restlessly with the blanket. “And you were right - it wasn’t over ten years ago, it’s been two and a half. The Crawleys were economising, I’d been as good as told that I was about to be declared surplus to requirements and to find employment elsewhere, only - turned out no one still in a position to hire a butler was keen to take on a - a -”

“I know,” Richard murmurs, and takes Thomas’s hand between both of his, offering only comfort and understanding.

“I felt so _unwanted_ , Richard,” Thomas whispers. It sounds childlike. “So fucking lonely. Like there was no one in the world who cared whether I lived or died. I couldn’t see the future and after a while I even stopped looking. I just wanted it to end.”

Richard sighs and brings Thomas’s hand to his mouth, pressing it to his lips. Thomas feels the warmth of them even through the glove. “I wish you hadn’t had to feel like that, ever. I wish that on no one, least of all you. And I feel like the worst sort of monster for making you talk about this and relive it all for my sake.”

“Why? I made _you_ talk about things.”

“Yeah,” Richard concedes, “but it’s a lot more recent for you.”

“Does time matter?” Thomas asks, quietly and sincerely. “Does it make a difference, do you think?”

Richard looks surprised, and takes a minute to think about it. “I’m not sure,” he admits eventually, the reply as earnest as the question that prompted it. “I’d like to think that it does.”

“Me, too.” Thomas lays his head back and contemplates Richard’s face for a few moments. His pulse is gradually slowing down, but he doesn’t feel he can breathe as deeply yet as he wants to. “What made you _not_ do it? Don’t say cowardice. The nurses in Sussex weren’t watching you that closely, as you said, so you had the opportunity. What stopped you?”

It probably isn’t an answer Richard has been asked before, but he has a prompt answer. “My Mum. Even in my darkest moments, I knew I couldn’t do that to her. And -” He hesitates for a second, a look of what could be embarrassment crossing his face. “And God.”

Thomas raises his eyebrows. “Truly?”

Slowly, Richard nods. His smile a little uneasy as he fidgets with a loose thread in the blanket. “Yeah. That surprise you?”

“Well…” Thomas weighs his words carefully, because anything he says on this topic could easily veer towards mocking. “Not as much now as I might have been before tonight. You practise, then? Consider yourself a man of faith?”

“I try to be, yeah.”

“How do you reconcile that with the fact that the Church preaches damnation for people like us?”

Thomas is earnest in the asking and didn’t mean for it to sound sharp, but Richard getting flustered doesn’t reassure him he’s entirely succeeded at that. “I - I don’t, actually. I struggle with that every day.”

Thomas finds he has things to say about this. Questions to ask about what those struggles entail, exactly, but now is hardly the time for a theological discussion. “I envy you,” he says softly, with a little smile to take any sting out of the words. “I wish I’d had something to anchor me, like you did. But I just felt… adrift. At open sea, without a compass, no land in sight. After a while of going mad with thirst and sunstroke, all that undrinkable water surrounding you starts looking real good for entirely different reasons.”

Richard nods slightly and squeezes Thomas’s fingers. Making rather a study of them. “I wish the same, Thomas. And I hope you’ll never have to feel that way again.”

“Amen to that.”

“However, I -” Richard clears his throat inconspicuously, but Thomas catches the stammer he is trying to disguise. “Thomas, I hope I can be an anchor to you if you ever were to need one. I could be, if you let me.”

Thomas doesn’t know how to respond to that other than by kissing him.

For a while, both of them sit gazing down on their joined hands in silence, until Thomas eventually hears himself asking, “Do you want to see it, then?”

Meaning his fucking monstrosity of a hand. As Richard clearly realises from the way he looks up, checking if Thomas is serious.

His heart is racing again. _It won’t be so bad,_ he tells himself - he already took the glove off this morning, after all, but this is _different_. He isn’t fully clothed now, for a start. As a matter of fact, if he takes off the glove he’ll only be wearing the blanket. But he’ll be bare in more than the literal sense of the word alone.

“Do you?” he asks Richard, who hasn’t got a stitch on him, himself. _Not the time to be coy._

“I want whatever you want.”

Right. Ever the diplomat, leaving the final decision with Thomas. _Could’ve seen that coming._

Thomas retrieves his hand, gently this time. Slips the first button through its hole, then the second. “Hope you have a strong stomach,” he says, mostly joking. He’s lucky and he knows it - at least he’s still got all his fingers, even if the fourth and fifth never regained full mobility.

He falters at the final step, and offers his hand back to Richard, who takes it after a moment’s hesitation. Raises his eyebrows at Thomas, a question without words. One Thomas answers with a brief nod, stomach lurching as his heart beats a frantic rhythm.

Once he’s convinced himself Thomas isn’t about to have second thoughts - that, or steeled himself for what he is about to lay eyes upon, Thomas isn’t entirely sure - Richard is efficient but careful about the removal, and the glove comes off without a hitch. Thomas curls his fingers towards his palm involuntarily, hiding the mess of tissue that is the exit wound.

“Very good hands you have, Mr. Ellis,” he says, to break the silence more than anything, but he does mean it. “Bet you can catch a raw egg without breaking it, with gentle fingers like these. No wonder you made it all the way to Buckingham Palace -”

He trails off, realising how silly his nervous rambling is making him sound. Richard is looking down at his hand, his thumb cautiously tracing the outer edge of his blighty scar on the back of it. Thomas releases a long, shaky breath, and watches as Richard rubs at his knuckles before returning to the unnatural landscape left by the impact of a German bullet. “Must’ve bled something awful,” he murmurs.

“Like a stuck pig.” Thomas remembers it still, the feeling of his own warm blood pouring out of him, and the immediate _gratification_ he’d felt after that first blinding flash of pain, knowing this was his ticket home - 

He bites back a sob he feels he is not entitled to. _Nothing,_ he reminds himself, _this is nothing. Plenty got it worse, including the man you’re with._

“Inside’s worse,” he mutters after a moment, giving due warning, and Richard nods slightly, but makes no haste to establish the truth of this for himself.

“How sensitive is it?” He still hasn’t directly touched the wound. Thomas can’t imagine why anyone might want to.

“Not very. In fact barely at all. I mean, I wouldn’t thank you if you were to stick a knife in there, but a simple touch wouldn’t hurt, if that’s what you’re worried -”

He has barely finished speaking when Richard guides his hand towards his mouth and brushes his lips against the scar, no back and forth, just the softest of imaginable kisses. Thomas is taken aback, and can only watch, wide-eyed and incredulous, as Richard kisses his mangled hand like it’s some sort of holy relic instead of - well, something out of a gothic novel.

He doesn’t realise he’s slowly uncurling his fingers until his hand is limp in Richard’s, just like he doesn’t realise he’s weeping until the dry sob he swallowed earlier breaks free after all, and Richard looks up at the throaty, choked-off sound, eyes warm with affection.

 _Stop,_ part of him wants to cry out. _This is too much, you’re too much._

But he doesn’t.

“Can I see?” Richard asks softly, and Thomas nods, turning around his already open hand so Richard can inspect the crater that used to be his palm. The doctors at the field hospital back in France had done rather a rush job of it, patched him up and sent him along to make room for more urgent cases. When he later consulted English doctors on the possibilities of reconstructive surgery, they’d essentially told him the mobility loss in his two affected fingers was irreversible and might even be exacerbated by further interference. And that was the end of that.

It’d felt like poetic justice, in a way, that the blighty - and the glove he’d started using to cover it - should serve as an always visible reminder of his dishonour, and caution him to do better. To _be_ better. Self-punishment had always been one of Thomas Barrow’s strong suits. He would’ve made a fine martyr, but he is no man of God and these scars are no stigmata.

While Richard is taking in the damage, Thomas wipes covertly at his eyes. His tears don’t embarrass him, per se - not when it’s just him and Richard, at least - but there’s no need to go overboard with it, either.

“How’d you do it?” Richard asks, tracing the contours of the wound as he had done on the other side as well.

“Held a lighter up above the parapet,” Thomas croaks. He has a different, far more heroic story for any outsiders that might ask, but the truth, he finds, leaves a far better taste in his mouth. “That’s all. German sniper did the rest.”

This time when Richard bends closer and presses his lips to his open palm, directly to the worst of the scarring, the gesture acts like a finger on the trigger of Thomas’s anxiety. He curls his lip and suddenly snarls, “You don't have to do that, you know. It’s ugly, I know it is, and you don’t have to - to _pretend_ not to see that for my sake. I wouldn’t blame you for hating it or being disgusted. I’m not as fragile as all that.”

Richard shakes his head and meets his eyes earnestly. “I’m neither disgusted nor pretending. I could never hate your blighty, Thomas. How could I, when it’s what saved you from that hell? Who's to say you wouldn't have been killed the next day, or the next week, if you hadn't done it? You’re not a coward for wanting to live. And I’m glad… so fucking glad that you are alive.”

Regretting his outburst already - as he usually does by the time it is too late, but old habits are like weeds in a garden, they keep cropping up when and where you least expect them - Thomas takes a chance, brushing the fingers of his scarred hand against Richard’s cheek and then slowly cupping it in his palm, his fucked up palm that is, and he breathes out as he wills himself to do this and to resist the urge to pull away. Instead of recoiling, Richard leans into the touch and closes his eyes, accepting the touch and the apology it conveys. “Richard Ellis,” he murmurs, “keep talking like this long enough and I may just start believing you.”

“That is my hope and intention.” Reaching up, Richard covers Thomas's hand with his own and keeps it there for a few moments before gently peeling it away and kissing the palm again. Then the heel of his thumb and each of his fingers, while Thomas looks on, dazed and trying to wrap his mind around this man’s capacity to give while asking so little in return, his willingness to accept even the most glaring of Thomas’s flaws. And as if the blighty isn’t enough, he finally leans a fraction closer still and -

And kisses the scars on his wrist.

Shocked, Thomas sucks in a breath and Richard's eyes flick up towards him as he kisses him again, deliberately and astonishingly gently.

Thomas can feel his arm twitch, an involuntary urge to pull back and hide. These scars are different than the one on his hand, neater yet more jarring in a way. No ‘wounded in the service of King and country’ there, no pretty story to tell. He knows what's inside him now, and he can feel this... _thing_ following him wherever he goes, dogging his every step, waiting for him to stumble. He manages to keep a lid on it, for the most part, but there are mornings when he opens his eyes in bed and he can't remember a reason why he should get up, and that's when he can feel it again, the chasm inside threatening to open, telling him he'll never get better, it's all an illusion, a charade he keeps up because he's a fool, but he'll always be _stuck here_ . Then there are the moments when he can't feel _anything_ at all. Those are the ones he fears most.

The fear of staring into that gaping abyss again, he can feel it waking up inside him every time he pays those scars more than a moment’s attention, and here Richard is, _kissing_ them. _Don’t,_ he wants to stammer, _don’t, you’ll wake the beast,_ but Richard's eyes are so calm and soothing, the fixed point at the centre of a storm, and so the instinct abates, the muscles in his arm relax, and the knot inside Thomas keeps giving, gradually losing the tension. And just like that, the storm passes. The black monster turns over, yawns and falls back asleep, no doubt to wake up another day.

For these past two days, he has felt himself unraveling thread by thread, and however terrifying it is - he _wants_ it to happen, because he doesn't feel like a wretched raft tossed by the waves like he has so often in the past. Richard said he wanted to be his anchor, but anchors drag one down. Hold one back. Richard, with his smile and his words and his voice - with his mere _presence_ \- is the shore, the safe port to set sail towards at the end of a long journey, the lighthouse beckoning and guiding him home, and Thomas can't imagine how he could ever choose to turn away from that at this point.

When Richard lowers Thomas’s hand into his lap, Thomas breathes deeply for what feels like the first time in minutes. All of a sudden, it occurs to him how physically and mentally drained he feels, and the chill in the room, previously welcome, now hits him unpleasantly.

“Can we…” His voice is hoarse, and he shivers. “Can we lie down, please, and close our eyes for a bit? I’m not - I don’t want to call it a night just yet, but I need to - just _be_ , for a little while.”

As if he isn’t going to conk out the minute his head hits the pillow, but knowing it is one thing, vocalising it another altogether. He isn’t ready to acknowledge there’s just one night’s sleep standing between them and the lonely journey back to Downton.

Richard nods and, without saying a word, holds up the blanket for him to slide underneath. Within moments, they’re comfortably settled on their sides in a snug embrace, Thomas’s back to Richard’s front. It’s nice and warm, and they fit beautifully, but -

“I’m on your arm,” Thomas protests, realising, but Richard only wraps himself even more tightly around him.

“‘s Fine, Barrow,” he mumbles into Thomas’s ear, “‘re You warm enough? Think there might be a spare blanket in the wardrobe -”

“No, it’s perfect,” Thomas sighs. And it is. There’s something about it, curling up together snug as peas in a pod, with nothing left to do but fall asleep. Something he wouldn’t mind getting used to. “Been quite a day, huh?”

“Loved every minute,” says Richard, and while Thomas could name one or two things he can’t have enjoyed as much as all that - his excruciating backache being one that comes to mind - he refrains from pointing that out. Grateful for the radiating heat of Richard’s body pressed into his, he simply smiles and closes his eyes, sinking into a warm, dark pit of oblivion within moments. --

When next he opens his eyes again, the room is still dark, but a slightly different kind of dark that tells him more than a few minutes have passed. He doesn’t care enough to check, though, not least because his watch will be in his waistcoat which he left… somewhere on route between the dinner table and the bed.

Definitely not worth the trouble. He lets out a blissful sigh and pulls the blanket up to his face so he is fully ensconced once more - somehow it managed to slip down to his chest while he napped. Perhaps that was what woke him up, he can’t think what else it might have been. He can’t remember having any dreams, and Richard hasn’t stirred at all either, but is instead still in the same position behind him, breathing calmly as he sleeps. His one hand heavy on Thomas’s hip, the other arm curled around his chest. There is no way the latter isn’t slowly getting crushed under Thomas’s ribcage, in spite of Richard’s earlier protestations, and Thomas instinctively tries to shift his weight off of it - gingerly, of course, so as not to wake Richard, but all it accomplishes is that Richard pulls him closer still, even wrapping a leg around both of Thomas’s underneath the covers, and snoozes on as if nothing has happened.

As if his cock isn’t suddenly pressed up against Thomas’s arse hard and eager.

Oh. _Oh._

He reflexively tilts his hips back to verify he’s not mistaken - as if there would be any mistaking _that_ \- but freezes before even completing the movement. Hesitant - what would Richard think if he were to wake up and find Thomas rutting against him like some tart - but feeling an unproductive tugging in his belly at the same time. Absolutely nothing is going to come of this from his side of the board, but he’d be lying if he claimed this left him wholly unaffected.

He knows he oughtn’t be flattered - any pair of buttocks tucked against Richard’s privates might have done the trick - but still. After all they did earlier, _this_. Man’s got some verve in him.

He’s still contemplating what to do about this predicament - not much he _can_ do about it really while Richard is asleep, except wake the man or escape his clutches somehow and scoot out of reach, which would pain him to do - when Richard unexpectedly stirs behind him. A small adjustment of position only, but enough to trap Richard’s erection even more snugly between them. Richard lets out an inarticulate moan, his hips stuttering to life as he starts rubbing himself against Thomas’s bottom in a tranced imitation of fucking. Thomas bites his lip, not sure whether to be amused or bewildered at being humped by a sleeping man but realising that he’ll have to do _something_ now, when Richard jolts awake, catching himself in the act and promptly stopping when he becomes aware of what is happening.

“Shit - sorry,” he rasps groggily, and pulls away with a jerk, but they’re so thoroughly entwined that getting untangled in a hurry is no easy feat. He manages to angle away his lower half, cursing under his breath, clearly mortified to have found himself in such a state. It’s so palpable - and so unnecessary, really - that Thomas reaches back for him, wanting to reassure.

“Hey.” Feeling his way about, curling his fingers through the air, he manages to find Richard’s hip and rubs it. “’s Okay, Richard. Don’t fret about it.”

“Fucking embarrassing -”

“Shh, it’s fine. C’mere, keep me warm.”

Richard doesn’t move. It feels like he would gladly disappear if he could, and Thomas can’t bear knowing Richard is chastising himself for no reason. He wants to make it better, and he has an idea, but there’s a chance it may not be well received.

“C’mere,” he insists, grasping at Richard’s hip, trying to pull him closer, “miss your body against me.”

“Not yet - not like this.” Richard’s reply is muffled. “I’ll be all right, Thomas, just give me a minute.”

“Want you as you are.” Gathering his courage, Thomas drops his hand away from his hip and inches closer to his offending cock. Slowly enough for Richard to understand his intent and stop him if he wants to.

“What are you - oh -”

When he doesn’t get stopped, Thomas grasps him gently in his hand, unerringly - he’s gotten his bearings in the dark and he doesn’t need his sight to find a man’s prick. He scoots back and Richard rolls towards him with a moan, so they meet halfway.

“Thomas -”

With a practised hand, Thomas rubs his tip, spreading the slickness that’s already there. It’s not much for lubrication, but he isn’t about to switch on the light and start a search for the vaseline. Then he parts his legs slightly and guides Richard’s cock between them from behind. “You can, you know - use my thighs,” he murmurs, and he hears Richard suck in a breath. His heart is beating fast and he doesn’t know why, other than that he wants this more than he could explain, and if Richard were to refuse he’d be gutted. “If you want to.”

The moan stuttering out of Richard’s mouth is low and guttural. “Can I, love?” he asks, breathy, tremulous. His tongue thick with sleep. “Can I, really?”

“You must’ve thought about it,” Thomas purrs, getting braver. “Last night, when you were ogling my thighs, you pictured yourself having me the Greek way, admit it. You said as much.”

Richard whimpers, a wordless concession, and leans his head into Thomas’s. He seems completely overwhelmed by what Thomas is offering - his sleep-addled brain can’t compute it. His hand finds its way back to Thomas’s hip, hesitant. “What about -”

Thomas expected this. “Too soon for me,” he says, resigned, and before Richard can raise protests, he adds, “This is for you.”

Richard starts shaking his head. “No - no, you don’t have to - I’ll be all right, if I can just -”

He doesn’t pull away, however, mind and body clearly at odds with one another, and Thomas decides to bring these polite, self-sacrificing protestations to an end. With a delicate roll of his pelvis, he rubs himself against Richard’s groin slowly and intently, keeping his cock snugly nestled between his thighs. Richard chokes out a gasp that cuts off his speech abruptly and his body responds to the invitation, fingers grasping at Thomas’s hip as he presses close. His cock throbs indecently.

“Just shut up and take me, Ellis,” Thomas says, wondering if Richard can hear the little smile that’s settled on his lips. But there is need in his voice, too - need he doesn’t try to mask because he isn’t ashamed of it. “Take what you want.”

Richard sighs against Thomas’s neck. Thomas feels him giving in, yielding to his urges, and he responds with a single whispered word as he begins thrusting, hesitantly at first but quickly gaining in confidence. _“Yes.”_

It feels like a dream almost, what they are doing here, except Thomas can’t remember the last time he dreamed about being enveloped securely into a man’s limbs and feeling said man’s prick being pushed back and forth between his almost closed thighs in a mesmerised rhythm. He tries not to clench overly hard, mindful of the fact that they’re doing this without proper lubrication and they’re probably going to be chafed and sore afterwards but it’ll be worth it, because he’s sure as hell going to remember every minute detail of this - the steady push and pull of Richard’s cock between his legs, the way his hips feel pressed flush against his arse, the messy kisses Richard is trailing along his hairline and nape as he occasionally murmurs _thank you, love, thank you_ in a voice slurred with sleep and emotion.

Thomas is overcome with a strange sensation as Richard ruts against him like this with slowly increasing urgency. He enjoys the feeling, enjoys the act of being taken, but even though his own cock remains flaccid he doesn’t feel used, quite to the contrary. He's filled with a sense of power, of purpose, actively doing his part to respond to Richard's need. It's sensual and stimulating in a way he didn’t really expect, there’s an element of pride to it, of accomplishment that quite simply makes him feel worthy, _wanted_ , good - and it’s compounded by the realisation that he can give Richard this, that he can be here for him in this way and offer himself without needing anything in return - Richard’s pleasure is its own reward. It’s an exhilarating feeling, different from what he would feel in his belly and between his legs if he too were ready for another round, but no less intense, and he can feel it spreading through his chest like a warm glow.

When he feels the tentative sting of Richard’s teeth at his shoulder, he welcomes that too, reaching up and back to tangle his fingers into Richard’s hair. “Do it,” he urges.

He can feel Richard hesitating, mouth open and panting against Thomas’s skin. He appears somewhat dazed, and Thomas can’t really blame him for that. “Wha-”

“Put a mark on me - go on.”

“Yeah,” Richard breathes as he nuzzles Thomas’s nape, mouthing slowly along the slope of his shoulder as though scouting for the perfect spot, “yeah, I have so many and you have none at all, ‘s not fair…”

Thomas grins recklessly. “Better make it a good one, then - make it count.”

Barely has he finished giving his instructions or Richard latches on, biting down briefly on the fleshy part of Thomas’s shoulder before sealing his lips over the preliminary bite and sucking, gently at first and then harder as Thomas moans encouragingly. Keeping his mouth in place, he shifts his body slightly so the next thrust hits Thomas a little differently, almost at the juncture of his legs, and he feels Richard’s cock nudge his bollocks. He grunts, “Oh, _fuck_ , Richard.”

Richard moans into his shoulder, bracing himself on his elbow and clutching at Thomas’s hip as he fucks him with increasingly frantic thrusts. They are both sweating under the blankets, Richard doing most of the hard work while Thomas tries to take it as well as he can without budging, and the sting of Richard’s teeth and the friction of Richard’s cock up against him are almost enough to stir his own prick, they truly are, but in the end it doesn’t matter whether they are or aren't because _this is for Richard_ and that’s how he wants it to be. That’s all he cares about, that Richard feel free to lose himself in this primal, animalistic way; Richard doesn’t have to worry about a thing, because Thomas is right there, undistracted by any physical urges of his own, ready to give him everything he needs - 

“Oh,” he whines, and scrapes at Richard’s scalp with his fingers as Richard finally finishes marking him with his mouth, licking soothingly at the tender spot. “Bloody hell, Richard -”

“Gave you a beauty, I think,” Richard rumbles in his ear, and nips at the lobe even as he cranks up the intensity of his thrusts another notch. He sounds mighty pleased with himself. “Gonna be seeing that for a while.”

 _“Good.”_ Breathing hard, Thomas tilts his hips just so, doing his best to keep receiving even though his burning thighs tell him this mustn’t go on for much longer if he wants to be able to walk into the Abbey normally tomorrow and pretend to be returning from a family visit instead of a two-day getaway in the Yorkshire countryside with a male lover.

A male lover who can keep at it all night, apparently.

“Oh, fuck.” Richard is unraveling, Thomas feels, they’ve been doing this enough times now that he is getting to recognise the signs, the way his control seems to be slipping and his thrusts grow erratic. He breathes harshly against Thomas’s ear. “Thomas, I - I’m gonna -” His cock throbs, and he shudders, leaning his forehead into Thomas’s shoulder as he whispers, “I’m about to make a mess, darling.”

Thomas uses his distraction to wriggle out of his embrace and turn around quick as a whip, pushing Richard down into the pillows before he’s even had a chance to protest and kissing him. His shoulder smarts pleasantly where Richard sank his teeth in earlier. “Well, we can’t have that,” he murmurs against his mouth, smirking. “I just gave you a bath.”

“Thomas,” Richard whines, stretching out the last syllable like a petulant child, and Thomas realises there’s no time to lose. Grinning, he dives under the covers and settles between Richard’s eagerly parting legs. Richard is in a state for sure, and Thomas takes him into his mouth quickly, holding him steady with his right hand as he sinks down, just three fingers loosely around the base are enough. He moans at the taste and scent of him and above him, muffled by the blanket, Richard moans as well, reaching underneath the covers and searching blindly until he finds Thomas’s free left hand and clutches it.

“Oh, Thomas,” Richard sighs, and Thomas hums around him to let him know he’s ready for him, pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside and opening his throat as he lets his hand fall away from Richard’s cock and grasp his bollocks instead, gently rolling them in his palm. Richard lets out another _oh_ and a beat later Thomas feels the first rush into his mouth, pouring warmly over his tongue, and he swallows in time for the next, over and over like this until Richard is wholly spent. Diligent, never one to rush these things, Thomas stays down, using his tongue to clean him attentively. Richard’s fingers squeeze his hand.

"Ah, Thomas, please... hurts," he mutters, and Thomas forgoes his last swallow, pulling off with a soft mouth.

“Sorry,” he says, reemerging from under the covers and trying to make out Richard’s face in the dark, but he can only see contours and not much else. Worried, he reaches for the bedside lamp and pulls the cord, only to be met by Richard’s bewildered expression.

“Little warning would’ve been nice,” Richard mutters, squinting like a confused cat, and Thomas uses his hand to shield his eyes apologetically.

“Sorry,” he says again, “needed to make sure you were all right, is all. Was it too much?”

Richard shakes his head, murmuring, “No, no, 's perfect,” and pulls Thomas closer, to his mouth, intent clear. “C’mere…”

Swaying into him, Thomas barely has enough time to wonder if he ought to warn Richard about what’s still sitting on his tongue before they are kissing, and it’s only when Richard nudges his mouth further open and presses their tongues together with a soft moan that Thomas realises this was exactly his intention. It’s not what he is used to - most men he’s known avoid doing this, but Richard isn’t like most men in more than one way. Understanding now, and spurred on by the way Richard clearly hungers to taste himself in his mouth, Thomas lays his fingers against his jaw and kisses back, letting him partake generously.

“‘s Perfect,” Richard repeats, breathless, when they finally break apart, “you are perfect.”

Thomas scoffs. “Can’t say that when you don’t like being called that word yourself.”

“Well, your thighs are,” Richard amends, cheeky. “Mouth, too.”

“I’m sorry if you’re feeling a bit… chafed,” Thomas says. “Didn’t wanna waste time looking for the bloody vaseline -”

“Please, you have nothing to apologise for. I don’t mind feeling well-used. Lets me know where I’ve been.” Richard chuckles at Thomas’s scandalised gasp. “Besides, it can’t be much better for you.”

“Mmm - just feeling a tad raw.” Thomas laughs and kisses Richard on the lips reassuringly. “Don’t worry - it was well worth it. You may have your way with me like that more often, Mr. Ellis.” 

“Thanks.” Richard’s lips quirk. “I may just.”

Thomas settles next to him - carefully, so as not to inadvertently brush against any sensitive bits - and props himself on his elbow. “You do that a lot,” he observes, “thanking me, apologising at the drop of a hat. Why’s that?”

“Well… my Mum raised me right,” Richard begins, and laughs when Thomas nudges him with his knee. “Oof… I don’t know, Thomas. Would you rather I took it all for granted? You, and everything I appreciate about you?”

“Don’t answer a fucking question with a question,” Thomas grumbles. “Hate that. I just wanna know why your eyes nearly fall out of your head every time I do something, like - well, letting you hump my thighs, for example.” Richard cringes, and Thomas wonders if perhaps he ought to have chosen his words a little more carefully. “Which I very much enjoyed, by the way.”

“I - I’m not sure.” Richard bites his lip uncertainly. “I just feel so spoiled by you. Starting with that incredible backrub this morning, the way you let me weep into your shirt about Uncle Hugh and everything we did tonight - the way you take care of me in bed. I know I can be… exhausting, in that regard.” He swallows laboriously. “And you not only don’t judge me for it, and don’t call me a freak, you even welcome and indulge it. I’m not used to that, Thomas, and I _don’t_ take it for granted. I don’t think I ever will.”

“You’re not a freak,” Thomas says. _Between the two of us there’s only one._ “You’re a pretty ordinary bloke, I’d say.”

Richard smiles. “You and I both know that’s not true. Ask anyone on the street how they feel about buggery, I think you’ll find pretty quickly, and to your detriment, that we’re the exception.”

Thomas feels his hackles go up at Richard’s facetiousness. “I know that,” he snaps. “Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve been dealing with this just as long as you have.”

“Of course you have. I apologise, I didn’t mean to imply differently. I was only -”

“You were only trying to be funny while I was making a point about something.”

They stare at one another, both silent. Richard takes a breath. “You’re right,” he says, earnest. “I’m sorry.”

Thomas harrumphs. This has thrown him off his track of thought and he doesn’t know if he cares enough to find it again. “Been carrying this secret around at my breast for over twenty years, somehow still get looked at funny wherever I go, you think I don’t know about feeling like an oddity? About loneliness? The fact that I made it to the head of the table and people do as I say doesn’t mean a damn thing. I used to think it did, when I was younger, but now that I’m here I realise - I still don’t know how to make or keep a friend in this damn house.”

He catches his error in talking about Downton Abbey as if they’re there, but doesn’t bother correcting himself. Flinches when Richard cups his cheek, but doesn’t pull away. At least Richard chooses the more prudent route and doesn’t say anything this time.

_Can we please go back to how we were five minutes ago?_

“I am sorry, Thomas,” Richard says softly. “We both deal with things differently, and I’m still learning that my way makes you feel sometimes that I don’t take you seriously, but trust me, I do. And I promise I’m trying to hold my tongue in check more, but, you know - old habits.”

He is choosing his words oh so carefully, Thomas can tell, and it's frankly maddening. He talks so much, and usually that's one of the things Thomas likes most about him, but in moments like these it feels more like a smokescreen and for some reason this rubs him in all the wrong ways. “You just can't help hiding behind words sometimes, can you?” he snipes, before he can think the better of it, and instantly regrets it when Richard’s expression crumbles.

Well, it seems he inadvertently found an open wound and put his finger right in there, if Richard’s hurt look is anything to go by.

“Ah - shit, Richard, I’m -” He wipes his hand across his eyes tiredly. “I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean to -” He stops to take a deep breath, still avoiding Richard’s eyes. “Look, I don’t want us to spend all night muttering sorry at each other for the things we said but didn’t mean or meant to say but didn’t. So can we just call it even and leave it at this, please?”

Richard nods - he too seems relieved to bring this to a close, however unsatisfactorily. Not every war needs to end in victory when a cessation of hostilities achieves the same end. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, uncharacteristically demure, and Thomas can feel the ice in his chest starting to melt.

“You can.”

Timidly, Richard tugs at him, and Thomas lets himself be tugged, pulled down into the pillow next to Richard, who rolls over to face him and reaches around to gently caress the nape of his neck. He is close and he is handsome with that angular jaw and cleft in his chin and Thomas finds himself pressing forward into the kiss when it comes.

“I love you,” Richard murmurs, as he pulls back to look at Thomas’s face, and as before, Thomas needs a moment to respond.

_Well, if the cosmos didn’t implode the last time -_

“I love you, too.” He notices Richard’s shoulders relaxing ever so slightly, and realises Richard wasn’t certain if he’d say it back. Softly he adds, “Silly man,” and Richard smiles, relieved, happy.

God, he’s going to miss that face. Among other things.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you earlier,” Richard says, stroking Thomas’s knuckles slowly with his thumb, “grabbing your hand like that.”

“My hand?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Richard elaborates. “You have a very distracting mouth, Thomas.”

Thomas is barely listening now. His hand, his left hand - his _ungloved_ hand. Mentally, he races back in time, reconstructing what exactly he did with that hand unawares since the glove came off. His stomach drops.

“... Thomas?”

He lifts his gaze from their joined hands up to Richard’s concerned face.

“I didn’t, did I? Hurt you?”

“No,” he rasps, and shakes his head. “No, you didn’t, I just - I just realised I forgot I wasn’t wearing my glove, and I… I touched you with it, touched your hair. I touched your _prick_ with my hand, Richard, my fucked up hand.”

Richard nods slowly. Thumb still caressing Thomas’s knuckles. Eyes steady when he replies, “I couldn’t have told the difference, Thomas. Truthfully.”

“May have had something to do with the fact that the only part of you that was wide awake was the one between your legs,” Thomas says, sharpish.

“Maybe that’s so,” Richard concedes, imperturbably calmly, “but, Thomas, I have my wits about me now and I’m telling you, it really doesn’t feel that bad when you touch me.”

“Would you swear to it?” Thomas asks. “Swear you’d tell me if it did, if it bothered you. Please.”

“I swear,” Richard says, soft and sincere, and meets Thomas’s searching eyes without a trace of humour or mockery. After a few moments, Thomas sighs.

“Do you mind if we leave the light on? At least for the time being?”

“Of course not, but why?”

“I want to look at you, 's all.”

“I’m yours to do with as you please,” Richard grins. Thomas flicks him on the nose and settles in on his side, putting his arm around Richard’s waist.

“There... this way maybe we'll actually manage to get some sleep.”

He means to tease, but for a second, he wonders whether Richard will mistake the tongue-in-cheek comment for criticism. But Richard, ever the good sport, takes it in stride.

“I didn't mind the interruption.” With a deadpan expression, he goes on, “Besides, if we’re pointing fingers, I would place the blame for what happened earlier entirely on your perky bottom, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas laughs, and what remains of the knot in his stomach dissolves. Richard chuckles along with him and brings his hand to his lips, kissing his scarred knuckles. “I wish we didn’t -” he begins, and catches himself, thinking a moment before starting over. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

Thomas can guess what Richard was going to say initially, and is glad that he changed it. He doesn’t like to think about what the morning will bring - he will deal with it when it does come, but he doesn’t like to think about it.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I wish we could, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only 1 or 2 more chapters left to this, i think. chances of a sequel are high


	25. Thomas (cont'd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, to quote myself from quite a few chapters ago: _I hope you good people appreciate two sex-starved closeted gay men going at each other in various ways as much as I do because ehhhh that is what you're getting with this story._
> 
> It is the last sex scene of the fic, tho - just one more chapter and an epilogue to go after this. Thank you for all your continued support and comments along the way, so very much appreciated!

When Thomas wakes up, there’s grey light filtering through the curtains and for a moment, as his fuzzy brain wraps itself around this new reality, his heart sinks. He went and slept past his normal time, he can feel it in every bone of his body, and that means nothing good for what precious little time remains until the Downton-bound train whistles departure.

From here on out, everything they do will be in preparation for that moment, a getting ready to resume the roles they will be expected to play once they pull the front door shut behind them and Richard turns the rusty key. No - Richard and Thomas no longer, but Mr. Ellis of the Royal Household and Mr. Barrow, butler to the Earl of Grantham, of Downton Abbey. 

He feels sick, just thinking about it.

_Well, then don’t!_

It may or may not be raining outside. Sometimes his hand tells him before he’s even had a chance to look outside, but it’s fine now. All the same, he flexes it by force of habit, stretching his stiff fingers to wake them up. He’s found that these early exercises make for an easier job during the day.

He wonders where the glove got to, but it’s a thought that floats in and out of his mind without urgency. The way one wonders about a misplaced pen, or other item of little consequence, put aside and then forgotten during a moment of absentmindedness. He’s used to sleeping without it. At Downton, it’s the last thing he takes off before bed and the first thing he puts on in the morning, and no one ever sees the scar but him, with the exception of that one time when he was laid up in bed with bandages around his wrists -

The only reason he _didn’t_ take it off two nights ago was because he had company. Someone who _notices_ things, by his own concession, and wants to _know_ things about him, all the bloody time. And Thomas has been talking - _God_ , has he been talking - to the point of rambling, spilling one ugly truth after another, at times almost daring Richard to get upset, to decide that this is more than he can handle, more than he is willing to take on in a - whatever word he would call Thomas by.

(Lover - he’d called him _lover_.)

But the fact of the matter is that they’ve made it to the last day and they’ve broken bread together and cooked together and played house and slept together and bickered and laughed and argued and cried and said _I love you_ and Richard had put his mouth on Thomas’s scars and said sweet things he seemed to fully stand behind and most importantly of all - he hadn’t left.

It’s awfully quiet, though, come to think of it. Quiet and lonely, without Richard’s limbs wrapped around him.

“Richard,” he whispers, reaching behind him and feeling his way around. “Richard, are you awake?”

When his fingers don’t find the reassuring presence of another warm, breathing body in the bed, he flips himself over on his other side, and his heart plummets for a second as his eyes find Richard’s side of the bed abandoned, the blankets neatly smoothed back into place as if he was never there to begin with. But his watch and cufflinks are still sitting on the bedside table, and so is the notebook Thomas has seen him writing in, his fountain pen resting atop it.

_Right - still around, then._

He breathes slowly, in and out, in and out. Telling himself that he’s being silly for worrying, Richard could’ve gotten up for any number of reasons, most of them completely innocent and unrelated to Thomas, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s inexplicably brought down by the sight of the unoccupied space beside him - the pillow still bearing the imprint of Richard’s head.

There is a note on the pillow.

That realisation, however, is momentarily eclipsed by another one that’s sinking in only now, and why’s it taken him this long to become aware of it is food for thought but it has and -

He’s woken up with a bloody _hard-on_.

He actually glances under the covers incredulously - not that he’s unfamiliar with the concept of a morning erection, but it’s not a daily occurrence for him these days and he definitely wouldn’t have expected one after all they got up to the night before - and is able to take in just how dire the situation is, his prick flushed dark and throbbing where it strains back towards his stomach in an obscene arch.

He feels a bit idiotic, staring at himself like some prepubescent lad studying his first morning wood with fascination and pride, but, well… he didn’t think he had this sort of rebound in him, anymore, and seeing the evidence to the contrary manifested like this is a wonderful surprise to get. He even can’t resist palming at himself slowly, teeth planted in his bottom lip as he drags the heel of his thumb up and down the length of him, enjoying the faint twinge deep in his belly, but he won’t take it any further. Too rare a gift to be wasted on something as banal as his own hand.

Besides, what would Richard say if he unexpectedly returned and found him masturbating in his absence?

He starts smiling when his mind answers that question for him - chances are the man would probably _like_ it. Especially if he were to kick the blankets down to the foot of the bed, spread his legs wide and make a bit of a show of it for Richard to enjoy.

It’d be satisfying to see the man frozen in the doorway, eyes wide and staring. His mouth might even fall open on a silent moan, or a not so silent one depending on whether or not Thomas had a couple fingers inside himself as well, slick and pumping slowly, eager and deep, in time with the strokes of his other hand, timed exactly as he liked it, perhaps spreading himself at the rim as Richard watched, teasing, opening himself up in case Richard might be inclined to finish what he started -

Thomas likes to think he might even find it in him to say something while fucking himself with his own fingers, just a benign little taunt to put Richard in his place for leaving him to wake up by himself, whatever reason he may have had for doing so. Richard would most definitely be blushing by then, eyes blazing a trail over Thomas’s skin from across the room, no, fixed, _yes_ , trained on the point between Thomas’s parted thighs, where his fingers showed him exactly what he’d been missing out on.

_“You walked away from /this/, Mr. Ellis, and left me to take care of it myself? What is wrong with you?”_

An anticipatory shudder of delight runs down Thomas’s spine, a tug in his belly like a jolt, sharp and sudden. His prick aches. It serves as a distraction from the slight rawness between his legs, at least. It probably wouldn’t hurt to apply a little vaseline later for entirely more pragmatic reasons.

Taking a calming breath, and reminding himself that for all this, he still hasn’t a clue where Richard has absconded to and why, he reaches for the note. It appears to be a page carefully torn from Richard’s notebook, neatly folded in half twice to make a quarto. Curious - _why is his heart pounding like this?_ \- he opens it and finds a letter written in a slanting hand that is… distantly similar to Richard’s cursive but different enough to be someone else’s.

In fact, it could be a woman’s handwriting.

Cunning. But then he could have expected that from a man for whom pretending is second nature.

What he does find himself tragically unprepared for, are the contents of the letter. Not because they are disagreeable in any way, quite to the contrary, but - well - it is a proper _love letter_. Over the course of their correspondence, he’d received more than one missive from Richard that skirted the line of impropriety and would without a doubt have raised eyebrows if fallen into the wrong hands, but this piece of writing was never meant to go through the postal system - and, it shows. Halfway through reading, Thomas finds that his hand has crept back under the covers, his cheeks heating up as his eyes fly over the amorous declarations Richard penned while he was asleep.

The letter is not dated - and why would it be - but Richard did mark the time at the top. _6:17._

_My beloved,_

_If you have just opened your eyes and realised I’ve gone, please know that I left your side very reluctantly and only for the briefest of times. Having awakened a while ago, I have spent every second since then gazing upon you as you slept next to me, trying and failing to calm the beating of my heart as I let my mind return to everything we have shared together these past two days, thinking of the softness of your lips, the breathtaking blue of your eyes (how I long to see it again very soon!), the touch of your hands on my skin, be it gentle or firm, the taste of you in my mouth. I think of your legs, your thighs, the hardness of you that I yearn for. I think of how your body felt pressing down into mine last night and I burn anew for your touch, as I will continue to burn while we are parted, until the day we meet again. Without you I will be empty. Know that I will picture your face every night, kiss every inch of you in my dreams, and when I touch myself for wanting of you, it will be with your name, my beautiful lover’s name, on my lips. I will use my fingers and wish for your mouth, for the pleasure it gave me. My heart, very shortly you will wake up and I will get to hold you in my arms again and lose myself in you as I kiss you. Yet, loath though I am to leave your presence, my raven-haired darling, my turtle-dove, I must depart for a very short while so as to prepare you a humble surprise. Trust that I'll be counting the minutes separating me from you._

_Until then,  
_ _I most ardently remain,  
_ _Your kitten._

_(P.S. I'm just downstairs, be right back. I love you.)_

Thomas is blushing like a fiend by the time he finishes reading, and when he does, he reads it again, and again, his prick jumping against his hand under the covers, begging for a faster pace, more friction than his open palm provides, and he’s torn between marvelling at the phenomenon that is Richard Ellis - he can just picture him now, writing this thing and occasionally grinning to himself in that way he does when he’s secretly enjoying something he probably shouldn’t, at least not to that degree - and thinking, only half serious: _I'm gonna make him eat this bloody letter with his toast._

Leave it to Richard to write a fucking novel and a half - an _erotic_ novel, at that - where two small words would have sufficed. ‘Back soon’ would have covered the gist just as nicely. Succinct and to the point.

But then again - credit where credit is due - it wouldn’t have warmed his chest, or his face, in quite the same way.

Folding the letter, he props a pillow up behind his back to lean against and settles in to wait for Richard impatiently, making sure that the blanket hides his predicament. The heater is on, which means the room isn’t quite so cold anymore, and he soon spots another sign of Richard’s diligence: his glove laid out on the bedside table, so carefully placed that it can’t have landed there by some accident, and it must have been Richard’s doing, Thomas has no memory of having done that, seeing as how he seems to simply have forgotten about the glove after Richard slipped it off him -

He starts to reach for it, but hesitates mid-air and eventually picks up the Agatha Christie instead. He leafs through it listlessly for a minute and then puts it back, deciding that Ms. Christie will stand a better chance of capturing his attention when she isn’t vying for it with a six-foot-and-a-bit looker of a man who might be about to walk through the door nude for all he knows.

He does however read the letter once - no, twice more.

He is just folding it up - he’s going to wear the paper before its time at this rate - when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs. Quickly and furtively, he tucks the letter away and out of sight, under the pillow behind him where he can access it easily if need be. Just in time, too, as Richard comes in a moment later, pushing the door open with his shoulder. In his hands he’s carrying a tray - a damn breakfast tray, such as Baxter takes up to Lady Crawley’s room every morning. Teapot and everything.

But it’s not even the tray that’s got Thomas staring, and it’s not because Richard isn’t wearing anything, it’s because of what he _is_ : the lower half of his striped pajamas, the run-of-the-mill kind any domestic servant owns, and above it, Thomas’s blue sweater. Might be it sits on his lithe frame a tad too roomily, but that isn’t why Thomas is gawking. Fuck, he hardly notices the discrepancy, and why would he, when Richard just walked into the room casual as you please, wearing a piece of of his clothing so handsomely?

“Ah,” Richard says, bright and beaming, when he spies Thomas sitting up in bed. “You are awake.”

He is acting all nonchalant, but Thomas sees the quick flick of his eyes towards the empty pillow. He smiles, thinking two can play at this game. Instead of bringing up the letter, he’ll leave him guessing for a minute, because it will amuse him to do so.

“I am, yeah.” He nods at the tray. “See you’ve been busy while I was acting the layabout.”

“Oh, you know - just a bit of this and that.” Richard’s radiant expression belies his modest reply. He looks around for a few seconds, searching for an available surface, and eventually places the tray on the dresser, pushing the pitcher aside to make room.

“Well, I’m right chuffed. Never thought I’d feel like a married aristocratic lady one day but here we are.”

Richard laughs and walks over to the window, opening the curtains with a dramatic flourish, arms flung wide. Thomas blinks as the daylight chases away the gloom of semidarkness.

“Don’t you think we should, er... keep them closed a little longer?”

“Why?” Richard turns away from the window and approaches the bed on Thomas’s side. “The sky and the rain don’t tell tales.”

“It’s raining?”

“Mmm - just a touch of drizzle.” Richard leans across the edge of the bed and kisses him, briefly and sweetly, on the mouth. Then his neck and his shoulder, lips warm on Thomas’s skin. “Good morning, love.”

Thomas murmurs, “Good morning,” and strokes the wool of Richard’s sleeve. “I see you’ve helped yourself to my favourite new sweater.”

Richard’s sheepish smile gives him a flutter in his stomach, not just in his stomach actually, and he tells himself to _keep it together, keep a lid on it, Barrow, too soon to let him see how bad you’ve got it._ “I have, yeah. I don’t usually appropriate things that don’t belong to me, but it looked warm and you weren’t awake to give permission. I hope you don’t mind that I -”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Thomas trails his fingers further down, rubs them at the bone of Richard’s wrist. Lays them against the inside as if taking his pulse. “I’ve never seen you in blue.”

“Yes, you have. Had a blue overcoat on last July, during our jaunt into York.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, I did.”

“I thought it was black.”

“No. It was blue, I promise you. I remember because Lawton jumped at the opportunity to snide at me that blue isn’t my colour.”

“Lawton doesn’t know what she’s on about.”

“She _is_ the Queen’s Royal Dresser, Thomas.”

“I know that. But the fact that she does a mean cross stitch doesn’t mean she knows a thing about men’s fashion.” Richard laughs, and Thomas feels light-headed, like he’s drunk. Drunk on happiness, drunk on whatever that damn letter made him feel. There’s a devil-may-care sort of daring welling up inside him that makes him reach for the note and withdraw it from his hiding place.

“You missed your calling as a poet, Mr. Ellis,” he says, breathless, and the flush that touches Richard’s cheeks is the best possible reward for his patience.

“A diplomat, I thought you said,” Richard murmurs, and blushes yet more deeply, perhaps remembering too late that Thomas had said those words in anger and hadn’t exactly meant it as a compliment at the time. But Thomas isn’t fazed.

“Both would’ve gotten you far.” He waves the note under Richard’s nose. “You know, with a pen like that, you could take on a nom de plume and write scandalous stories for some London magazine. Supplement your income from the Crown and retire early. You’ll be very comfortable in your old age.”

Richard chuckles forgivingly. “You have a rich imagination, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas is like a freight train, running smoothly and not about to reach for the brake. “I’m entirely serious. You should send some samples of your work to Lady Hexham, I’m sure she’d be interested in employing you as a contributor to _The Sketch_. I’ll help you pick a pseudonym. Something that piques the interest, I think, like… like Cecilia Glasscock, or Florence Hickinbottom.”

“Oh my _God_ , Thomas…”

“Just the one thing, though.” Thomas taps the paper, unable to contain his glee and at this point he isn’t even trying anymore. “ _Turtle-dove_? I thought we’d talked about that. Naughty lad, Mr. Ellis.”

Richard’s face is beet-red by now, but his apologetic grin reassures Thomas that that part at least was written in the spirit of irony. “Oh, all right then, you’ve had your laugh.” Richard reaches for the letter, as if to pluck it from Thomas’s fingers. “Give it here so I’ll dispose of it.”

Before Richard’s fingers can so much as brush the paper, however, Thomas snatches it back, surprising himself. Stammering as he clutches it against his chest with a protective hand, “I - I think I’d rather keep it, for now.”

Because reading it close to ten times isn’t enough, clearly, he’ll need to read it at least several times more until he’s absorbed the words into his memory.

Richard lowers his hand, surprised by his reaction, and gazes down at him for a few moments, assessing. “Is that wise?” he finally asks, softly. “Only I worry that it’ll fall into the wrong hands and you’ll get into trouble for it. If I had to live with that on my conscience, I - God, I wouldn’t sleep another wink.”

“No one needs know it’s by a man,” Thomas says, rationalising. Biting his lip. He’s burned some of Richard’s most incriminating letters but he won’t destroy this one, not if he can help it. “I’ll be careful, Richard, I promise. I’ll keep it somewhere safe, where no one ever looks. Please.”

Something passes over Richard’s face then, a softness, smoothing out his dubious frown, and he leans down to kiss him. “Of course, Thomas, it’s addressed to you and yours to keep if you wish. I just can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”

Thomas reaches up and cups his nape. Stealthily fixes his collar. It is strange, touching a piece of clothing he knows and owns while it’s sitting on another man, but… not a bad kind of strange. “Thank you,” he says earnestly, looking into Richard’s eyes. “Both for the sentiment and for the letter. I’m not entirely sure how much of it was meant to be facetious, but it made me feel quite lovely.”

“Well, then you simply _must_ keep it,” Richard says, smiling warmly, and kisses him once more. “I’m glad it made you feel lovely. I admit I was worried you’d read it and think you were being had, that I was making a lark of it, but I promise that wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to make you smile.”

“Well, that I did. Blush, too.” Because it costs him nothing to say it, and Richard’s pleased grin is a reward he is happy to collect in return for his honesty.

“I hope you have an appetite.” Richard straightens up smoothly. Thomas hopes that means his back isn’t bothering him today and that he’s getting his first undiluted experience of what Richard is like in the morning. “I left the kitchen in utter chaos but wait until you see this breakfast, I’m quite proud of the poached eggs in particular.”

“There’s eggs? I thought we’d finished those.”

“We had, but there was a basket on the front porch this morning as I came down, with a thank you note from the lady down the road. I swear those eggs were still warm.”

“Oh. Right,” Thomas says sheepishly, remembering now. “She said she’d do that, come to think of it. I’m just surprised she got here so early.”

“Well, it’s -”

“I know, I know, it’s the _country_.” Thomas rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and Richard laughs. If Thomas were any good at mimicking accents, he’d put on a thick Yorkshire drawl, but it’s probably best not to even attempt it. Richard of all people would spot the fakery in an instant. “People get up early in the _country_.”

“People _do_ get up early in the country,” Richard says, because he just needs to get the last word in even when they’re pretend bickering, but it’s a flaw Thomas can be called upon to forgive. He’s distracted, at any rate, and takes a breath for courage as Richard turns away.

_Don’t be idiotic. It’s only Richard!_

Pushing through it, he takes Richard’s hand as he starts towards the dresser. Surprised, Richard turns back, looking down at him in the bed from a height of over six feet. Probably not the right way to go about this, with Richard towering over him like that.

“C’mere,” he says timidly, giving Richard’s hand a slight tug. “I wanna ask you something.”

He half expects Richard to at least splutter some - he’d seemed so proud of his poached eggs that Thomas feels guilty about letting them go to waste in favour of what he’s about to ask - but he sits down on the edge of the bed facing Thomas. Giving him his full attention so unreservedly that Thomas needs a minute to recalibrate and decide how to go about this. What words to use.

Straightforward is probably the best way to go about it. _It’s only Richard,_ he reminds himself, and it helps.

“Do you remember… asking me, yesterday, if I had any, um, requests? As regards the -” He almost says _bedroom department_ , and swallows it back last second. “Uh -” He notices Richard looking increasingly alarmed, and curses himself for stumbling on his opening line. Christ, not half an hour earlier he was fantasising about fingering himself in front of this man and now he can’t even get a couple words out? “As regards sex.”

Richard slowly nods, some tension seeping from his shoulders almost unnoticeably. “I do.”

“Well, there - there is something I’ve been thinking of.” Thomas’s face burns, and he becomes very aware suddenly of the fact that Richard probably hasn’t even cottoned on to what exactly he is hiding underneath the blanket. “Something I’ve wanted to try for a long time. I’ve just - I’ve never actually _told_ someone before, and I’m not sure… how to say it. Without cringing, that is.”

“You needn’t be embarrassed.” Richard squeezes his hand, and Thomas looks down at where they are joined, between them on the bed. “Whatever it is, Thomas, please don’t worry that I’ll judge you, or laugh at you or think any less of you. You don’t have to cast your mind very far back into the past to realise that some of the things I like in bed are a bit… eccentric, to say the least, so don’t think that I’ll be scandalised if you’re about to tell me you’d get off on being tied to the bed or - I don’t know, having me come on your face -”

He says it so casually that Thomas almost chokes on his tongue. “There’s men who like that?”

Richard gives him a little smile. “So I’ve heard.”

“Jesus.” Thomas lets out a breath. Somehow, the thing he wants suddenly doesn’t seem like much to confess to. “That isn’t what I was going to say, but - if it was, you would have offered to try it?”

“I’d probably have to draw the line somewhere, Thomas, but on the whole - no, there isn’t much I wouldn’t at least try for you.”

_For you._

Thomas has to remind himself what this conversation was originally about before it derails into something entirely different. Something that might include weeping on his part.

“Well, that’s - good to know, but no, it’s nothing like that, ‘s just…” Fully aware of how ridiculously tame this is going to sound now, he steels himself and looks up into Richard’s eyes. “Look, I'd like to suck your cock, all right? And... and finish exactly when... you do."

For a second Richard just gapes at him like a fish, and under different circumstances Thomas might’ve smiled about it, but the moment somehow feels too solemn for it. Before long, Richard clears his throat and seems to collect himself somewhat.

“Jesus, Thomas, I - of course I’d be delighted to make that happen for you whenever you want. Perhaps as soon as after breakfast, if - if you’d be up to it…” He glances in the direction of the dresser, those poached eggs still calling out to him, and Thomas is sorry for it but some things do take precedence even over this.

“No,” he says, quietly but insistently, with a pointed raise of an eyebrow, “I kind of need it to be _now._ ”

“Now?” Richard asks, puzzled, and Thomas nods, staring into Richard’s eyes until he gets it.

“ _Oh._ You mean -” Richard gulps, and Thomas slowly extracts his hand from his to touch his leg instead. Feeling his thighs tense and then part slightly. Richard moans, “I _see_.”

“Yeah… so, if you’re willing?” Thomas keeps his hand immobile, resisting the urge to cup him as that would rather be too forward. “Got a bit of a predicament - woke up with it actually - and reading that letter didn’t help. Neither did touching myself as I read it.” Richard whimpers.

“Oh, God, Thomas, that’s - you can’t say things like that and expect me to keep my wits together.”

“Then don’t,” Thomas says simply, and leans back. “So… yes?”

“Yes, Thomas, I want to, please -”

If it was strange to touch the sweater while Richard was wearing it, it is even stranger to grasp it by the hem and shimmy it up along his torso and raised arms. Thomas doesn’t take his eyes off Richard as he flings it out of the way, and the moment he does, Richard is on him like a rash, crushing their mouths together in a breathtaking kiss as he pushes him back into the pillows and gets on top while simultaneously trying to slip out of his trousers. The attempt is less than elegant, and Thomas tries his best to help, but his hand gets distracted as soon as he realises Richard isn’t wearing anything underneath. His fingers close around him confidently, and Richard moans.

“ _Very_ naughty lad, Mr. Ellis.” His breath puffs against Richard’s open mouth, and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. Richard is swelling, and Thomas has barely done anything. He grasps him firmly around the root and pulls once. Richard gasps and finally manages somehow to kick his trousers off.

“Thought you might appreciate - ah - easy access.”

“I do.” Thomas thumbs at the retreating foreskin and feels Richard’s thighs tremble, knees planted into the bed on either side of him. He flicks his thumb again and circles the emerging head slowly. “I’m sorry about the eggs. I promise I’ll eat them afterwards and still be just as impressed.”

“Bugger the eggs.” Panting, Richard braces his hand on the headboard, pushing his hips towards Thomas’s hand. “Y’wanna know something? I woke up with the same problem.”

“You should’ve let me know.”

“Daredn’t. Figured you’d already indulged me by giving me your thighs, didn’t want to impose so soon again.” He smirks. “So you see… getting up and making breakfast was as much about trying to calm myself down as it was about surprising you.”

“That makes me feel a little better about jilting those bloody eggs.” Pulling Richard closer by the waist, he kisses the fresh bruise by his nipple, and then the nipple itself. Twists his hand around Richard’s cock and gets a soft yelp in response. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing… just a bit sore, is all. Keep going.”

“What is sore? The nipple or your prick?”

“‘m Sore everywhere.” Richard gives him a roguish grin. Breathless, “Please, Thomas, kiss it again.” Thomas does, careful. Richard sighs, “Tongue, love,” so he parts his lips and touches the nub with the front of his tongue, rubbing it slowly over and across. Richard groans above him and he pushes himself into Thomas’s closed hand, still getting harder with every stroke. “ _More_ ,” he whines, and Thomas gives him more, moaning against Richard’s chest as he sucks on his nipple. Richard’s spread knees pull the blanket tight across his hips and his own cock is trapped underneath, throbbing almost painfully. And the way Richard is rubbing himself against his mouth isn’t exactly helping.

“Oh, fuck, Thomas - feels so fucking good.”

Thomas pricks up his ears - once Richard starts cussing it’s probably best to wrap up the foreplay, especially when he’s already moist at the tip, _which he is, Jesus_ \- and laps at Richard’s nipple once more before pulling away with a little tap on Richard’s hip. Dazed, Richard needs a moment to focus on his face.

“Right, how do we -?”

Thomas manages a smile. “I had sort of hoped you would take the lead on that. I don’t much care _how_ you get me off, s’long as -”

“We do it together.”

Thomas nods, and for a minute they stare at one another, their laboured breathing audible along with the soft humming of the heater.

“What if we -”

“... Switched around?”

They start smiling at the same time.

“You liked that,” Thomas says. “Last night, when we were in that position, you were thinking about it then.”

Richard grins and shrugs. “And what if I was?”

It’s a good question. Thomas lets him win this one. “Thank you,” he says softly, instead of a riposte, and cups Richard’s face.

“Thomas, please, no need for that. No need at all.”

Thomas smiles. “Is it so bad to show my _appreciation_?” he teases, and Richard laughs.

“Thomas… Thomas, I -”

A finger on his lips shushes him. “No, you don’t get to say it first this time,” Thomas says, and Richard’s eyes light up with surprise. Technically, he _had_ said it first, if you counted the letter, but Thomas reckons he could have gotten away with letting that one slip the net. He doesn’t want to, though. And so he takes a breath. “I love you.”

Richard kisses his finger. “I love you, too.”

They scoot down the bed, casting the roughspun blanket aside in favour of the sheet, softer and more pleasant to lie on. This time it is Richard who turns himself into the opposite direction, settling with his head near Thomas’s crotch. Finally, he arranges one of Thomas’s knees to point upwards, setting his hand on the opposite thigh, while Thomas mirrors him on the other end, waiting. Timing is of the essence here, but even if they end up not quite pulling it off, Richard won’t be hearing any complaints from him. There is no written rule that it has to succeed first try.

“Er… use your fingers to stall things if need be,” Richard says sheepishly, and Thomas grins at him.

“I am familiar with the technique, Mr. Ellis.”

Then, before the grin has faded from Thomas’s face, Richard leans in the final inches and kisses the tip of Thomas’s cock, holding him steady at the root as he lips at him slowly, dragging his bottom lip over and across the slit a few times, rewetting it with the tip of his tongue before every pass. Thomas's breath stutters in his chest as he watches Richard during these opening movements, watches him make a few lazy strokes with his hand, squeezing just under the head at the end of each as though he were milking him, and with success - moisture glistens at the slit, and Richard flicks his eyes towards Thomas, who lets out a soft moan as Richard gives him a first proper pass of his tongue, licking it up.

“Don’t let me distract you,” he smirks, eyes twinkling up at Thomas as he teases his frenulum with the tip of his tongue before opening his mouth further and slipping it around Thomas’s cockhead, just to the foreskin, only to then start bobbing slowly, cheeks hollowing on each upstroke. 

Tearing his eyes away from the mesmerising stretch of Richard’s lips around his knob is no easy feat, but eventually he manages it. Since Richard mentioned feeling sore, last night and as recently as a minute ago, he takes a different approach - loosely cupping the shaft in an open hand, he starts with several slow, languorous licks of his flat tongue against the underside of Richard’s prick, from frenulum to root and up again. He alternates with kisses, using only his lips, up and down the length, but still avoiding the head, much though his tongue thirsts for the taste of him, for a sample at least, he doesn’t want to risk it. So he stays patient, sticks with his chosen strategy, taking his tongue and lips to every inch of Richard’s prick, except the part that seems to need his attentions the most, if Richard’s increasingly frustrated moans are any indication.

“For Christ’s sake, Thomas,” Richard gasps at one point, pulling off him, “when I told you to stall things I didn’t mean you should torture me.”

“I’m only being gentle with you, love,” Thomas retorts, leaning up to send an impish grin in Richard’s direction.

“Well, don’t.” Reaching down, Richard winds his fingers into Thomas’s hair, close to the scalp, and gives a quick, playful tug. It sends the most pleasurable little jolt through Thomas’s limbs - he gives a soft, closed-mouthed moan and his cock twitches. Richard will have noticed both.

“You like that.” Observing, just a touch of a smile on his face as he tilts his head. “You like your hair pulled.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Thomas deadpans, and Richard chuckles.

“The way you reacted last night was… hard to miss,” he says, unbearably smug, and he gives Thomas’s hair another, smaller tug before pulling away. “Seeing as how I could feel you moaning against my bum and all the way inside of me, when I did that.”

“Fucking bastard,” Thomas breathes, because his cock jumps again when his mind is cast back to that moment, and Richard’s chuckle becomes a hearty laugh. “And such a nice bum it is, too. Loved taking my tongue to your arse, Mr. Ellis, and from the way you rubbed yourself against my face I daresay you liked what it gave you.”

Richard groans, and Thomas feels a rush in his belly. This is all to blame on that bloody letter, he thinks.

“Hope to return the favour one day,” Richard says, and she slides his hand between Thomas’s thighs, inadvertently touching him where it smarts just a bit from the night before. Thomas can’t keep from flinching, and Richard’s smile fades. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not the only one who’s sore this morning, ‘s all.” Thomas smiles to take away any concerns his reaction may have elicited, but from Richard’s expression it’s hard to tell if he’s succeeding. “Richard, please, it’s nothing.”

“Where did the vaseline get to? Maybe I should fetch it just in -”

“Richard Ellis, don’t you dare move.” Thomas gives him as stern a look as he can muster. “Like I said, it’s nothing. ‘s A matter of fact, I quite like it. Lets me know where you’ve been. Wasn’t that how you so eloquently put it?”

Richard laughs, “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” However his last few words trail off into a moan as Thomas bends down and presses his lips to the underside of his cock, right at the very base where shaft meets bollocks. This time it is Richard who can’t stop watching and he works all the harder for it, giving him flicks of his tongue and finally latching on with his lips, working his mouth as he gently sucks at the root of him, feeling Richard shudder and pulse in his hand.

“Ah, Thomas - love that mouth of yours.”

Thomas moans and increases the pressure of his mouth, satisfied to feel Richard jerk in place, his thighs tremble. He hisses out an emphatic _yes_ through his teeth, and a fat, clear drop wells up at his tip, clinging to the slit for a few seconds before sliding down.

Richard breathes, “Love that _fucking mouth_.”

“Love making you cuss with it.” Thomas pulls away from this new spot he’s discovered with a parting lick and catches the drop on his tongue. Drags it up to the head and circles slowly around, watching Richard’s face attentively. His eyes are heavy-lidded, Thomas’s prick neglected in his hand, but for now, that is fine - Thomas rather likes having such a rapt audience for this. And he’s confident enough in his own skills to make sure Richard isn’t going to come before his time. “Love making you beg for it.” He uses his fingers to pull the foreskin back over the head, doing this a few times, back and forth. “But I don’t want to hurt your poor cock. It’s been working so hard.”

“For fuck’s sake, Thomas,” Richard moans. “I _need_ this. Need your mouth on me, love, please…”

Thomas does it again, with a little twist from the wrist this time. He holds his fist closed around the tip. “Are you sure, Richard?”

“Fuck, _please_ -”

This time, when Thomas guides the foreskin back to expose the head once more, he replaces it with his lips. Pressing down his tongue, making room for him in his mouth, he sinks down about halfway on the first go and stays there for a few moments, listening to Richard keen with approval and relief as he surrounds him. His hand has settled around the base, covering the part of him he isn’t ready to take into his mouth at this point. He hums softly and arches his tongue up against him, tasting him. He wants to absorb the taste and scent of Richard into his own body, into his conscience, make it part of him. He’d meant to pull off after this, for a breath of air, perhaps a teasing remark or two along the lines of _who’s distracted /now/, Mr. Ellis?_ But now that he’s here, he finds he doesn’t want to.

After a minute of just resting there, getting his bearings, he bobs up with an arch of his neck - relaxing his fingers and using his lips to guide Richard’s foreskin up and over the head. He repeats this a few times, using only the circle of his lips, and occasionally his tongue to tease at the slit. Meanwhile his fingers work the base undemandingly, the middle languidly massaging the spot between shaft and scrotum. It doesn’t take long before Richard gives up on watching and rests his head on Thomas’s leg, panting unintelligibly against his skin. His hand has picked up moving along Thomas’s length unrhythmically.

“Jesus - Jesus fucking Christ, Thomas, keep this up and I’ll -”

He cuts off when Thomas gives up playing and takes him back into his mouth comfortably as he starts to suck, working his middle finger in more insistent circles. He vaguely hears Richard cry out and takes a little more of him, making him fit. His taste and scent are overwhelming and they are everywhere - on Thomas’s tongue and in his nose and in his ears and _God_ , it is exactly what he wants. He savours it, he savours every second of this, but he has to be careful - he can’t expect Richard to still be thinking clearly at this point - and so he pulls off smoothly, wrapping his fingers around Richard’s tip and pinching. Richard whimpers with frustration and gratitude.

“And you’ll what, Mr. Ellis?” he asks, low and sultry.

Just in case the man were ever find himself tempted to have some stranger paw at his hair again, it couldn’t hurt to remind him Thomas sucks better cock than any of the queers prowling the streets of Soho - he’s been to the place often enough to establish that for himself.

To be safe, he counts to twenty before loosening the vise around Richard’s cockhead, and Richard turns dazed eyes towards him.

“You are far - far too fucking good at that,” he gasps, and Thomas smiles.

“I know what I’m about.” He breathes cool air over Richard’s tip, and Richard softly hisses. “Hurting, love?”

“Only my pride,” Richard mutters, self-conscious, “fuck, in case you’d missed it, I'm letting you do all the work here.”

“Get to it then, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas says, “I’ll give you a headstart this time.”

He thinks Richard might be blushing as he takes him back into his mouth and he rather likes seeing that, so he reckons he can indulge himself by watching a little while in turn, watching Richard’s eyes close in surrender as he works his hand and mouth in tandem. “Taking me so well, darling,” he murmurs. He starts moving his middle finger again where it’s still pressed against the same spot, and notices Richard’s blush deepening as he moans. “‘m Going to reward you for being so good, so attentive. Just a few more moments, because I’m weak and I can’t stop watching you like this.”

Finally he decides he’s given Richard enough time to recuperate and goes down on him once more, feeling Richard’s mouth stutter only for a moment, for which he rewards him with a stroke to his flank. He keeps things a little more simple this time, bobbing and sucking leisurely, and after a while he realises they are doing this in sync, pleasuring each other not only in the same way but in the same rhythm, too. Something about it hits him in the belly, and he reaches blindly for Richard’s hand, grasping his fingers, not sure what he wants to accomplish with this except to feel him, all of him, everywhere. He feels Richard’s fingers squeeze his in return and then turn the tables on him by reaching up, softly scratching his scalp and winding into his hair. The first tug makes gooseflesh break out from all over Thomas’s arms - the second, significantly stronger one sends a spike of heat down his spine and straight into his gut.

This time, Richard gets to the point of inevitability much faster, and Thomas has to pull off again and squeeze him in the same way as before. “Keep at it, love,” he encourages Richard, who has managed to stay on the task this time, and he pets his hip soothingly. “Getting closer, I promise, just keep sucking it so prettily.” When he gets no reaction, he taps his hip a little more insistently. “Look at me, Richard.” Finally, with some difficulty, Richard manages to do so, his glazed-over eyes slowly regaining focus as he stares at Thomas’s face. Thomas is getting to know that look.

“Breathe, love,” he says softly. “Do you need to say the word? Just for a break, maybe?”

Richard’s eyelids flutter closed, and he breathes, in and out. When he opens his eyes again, they are a little clearer. He shakes his head.

“‘s Long as you’re sure.”

A nod. Emphatic one.

“Can you take this one more time?” Thomas asks. Meaning the pinching, and what it does to him. Richard stares at him for a few moments, practically unblinking, then closes his eyes and shakes his head. Apologetic, defeated almost, like he’s somehow been found wanting. “That’s all right, love. Keep at it, then, and I’ll watch. I could get off just watching you swallow down my cock.”

Shaking off whatever came over him earlier, Richard slowly but surely picks up the pace again with Thomas looking on, leaning back, his middle finger occasionally finding that delightful hidden spot behind Richard’s cock to make sure he doesn’t come down too much. He can feel himself slowly getting there, too, mesmerised by the heat of Richard’s mouth, by the way it takes more and more of him until his hand becomes a useless commodity. He’s taking him so well that Thomas finds himself rolling his hips slightly, pushing towards that heat.

“Wanna fuck your face,” he hears his own traitorous lips saying, making himself blush. “I - can I - only if you want to.”

Richard moans. If Thomas had to wager a guess, he’d say it sounded like assent, but he isn’t about to start thrusting on a hunch alone. He’s about to ask again when he feels, confusingly, Richard put one of his fingers in his mouth alongside Thomas’s prick, and a moment later, that same slicked finger appear at his hole. He gives a soft yelp of surprise as it circles him, teasing, coaxing, and Richard raises his eyes up to him, clapping them on his face. His finger nudges Thomas again, nudges him _right there,_ and he thrusts up, into that mouth. Richard’s eyes remain steady, and he moans. Thomas rolls his hips back. Damn it, he wants to do this slowly, to savour it, but he doesn’t think he can. He watches Richard’s eyes as he pushes himself back in, not all the way, but as far as he dares.

“Oh, Jesus, fuck, Jesus, Christ, look at -”

He gets into a rhythm and the rhythm is _good_ , it’s perfect, this is exactly what he needed to catch up to Richard who’s been leaking and ready for what feels like fucking ages, and it’s Richard’s mouth that’s doing it, his mouth and his heat and that bloody finger between his legs and the look that crosses Richard’s face every time Thomas fucks in almost to the hilt -

“Oh,” he moans finally, as his belly tenses, “Richard, fuck, I’m about to come,” to which Richard responds by reaching down and grasping his own cock.

_Right. Mustn’t forget what this was all about in the first place._

Turning his head with some difficulty, Thomas swallows him down - just the head. Richard is stroking himself, trying to time this thing perfectly, and Thomas loves him for it, because he couldn’t for the life of him control anything that happens next. He somehow remembers to work his mouth as best he can, to do a little more than just keep it open and wait for Richard to come on his tongue, and he can feel Richard moaning around him and he’s bloody _fucking his mouth_ albeit not very gracefully and they’re completely symmetrical again and he doesn’t know why that realisation affects him so but it _does_ and he can feel Richard’s fingers bumping against his lips on every upstroke and he’s going faster now actually _jerking off into Thomas’s mouth_ and Thomas can hear himself moaning like some sort of wounded animal because he’s that desperate for it and -

The second Richard twitches against his tongue and the first warm rush floods into his mouth, Thomas can feel himself doing the same in Richard’s mouth, a pulse followed by release upon release, and it’s blinding heat and it’s heart-stopping pleasure and he can vaguely feel Richard’s fingers bruising his arse throughout all this while his may or may not be returning the favour on Richard’s thigh and they really are doing this _together_ and it’s -

It’s fucking perfect, really.

Richard’s climax passes first, because - well, for obvious reasons, really, and dazed though he is, Thomas resists the urge to clean him, instead just resting around him as he crests his own peak before starting to come down. Richard does clean him, though, and thorough he is about it too, taking a good minute perhaps before even pulling off. Thomas still hasn’t moved, Richard’s thigh a firm pillow under his cheek, steady. He can feel Richard’s hands on him, gently stroking him in his afterglow, and he sighs deeply. He would rather like to stay here, right here on Richard’s thigh, possibly forever. But at least for another minute - just another minute exactly like this would be good.

He gets his minute, well, perhaps even two, before Richard asks if he’s all right. He hums, gradually coming back into his own mind, and pulls off of Richard’s cock before leaning up on his elbow. It’s only when he does this that he realises he’s been negligent about swallowing, so he does, and he feels rather than sees the delicate line stretching between the crown of Richard’s cock and his bottom lip.

“Fuck, Thomas, your lips -”

Just as Thomas’s eyes meet Richard’s, the thread snaps - part of it lands on his chin and chest.

“My lips?” Bewildered, he reaches up, but Richard stops him.

“Wait.”

He wipes at his cock, his thigh, scooping up the sticky substance with his thumb, and finally at Thomas’s chin. Still dazed from the intensity of his orgasm, Thomas waits, swaying a little on his elbow, soaring, happy. He isn’t really surprised when Richard’s thumb appears at his lips next, pressing lightly against the bottom.

“Do you want it?” Richard asks when Thomas delays.

Thomas grins. “Yes.” Nips at him, playful, because he’s feeling it. Richard smiles and slowly draws his thumb along his lip, spreading himself along it.

“I was going to say, your lips look spectacular right now. You should see yourself, Thomas.” He stops, eyes sparkling, voice dipping low. “Open up.” This time, Thomas obeys promptly, parting his lips to accept Richard’s thumb into his mouth, his eyes half closed as he sucks it clean eagerly. Sucking on it as if it were his cock, actually, and Richard stares as though mesmerised, his withering erection even giving a dying twitch. Thomas grins around the digit.

“Don’t smirk,” Richard chides him, breathless, pressing down slightly on his tongue and evoking a soft moan. “It’s not the way of a gentleman.”

Thomas cups Richard’s hand and pulls off of his thumb. “Good thing I’m not a gentleman then, huh.”

“I’m glad. Had my share of so-called ‘gentlemen’, to be honest.”

“So you decided you wanted a bit of rough, for change?” Thomas wraps both hands around Richard’s and gently bites his knuckle. “Working class lad to fuck you right?”

“You’re a biter.”

“I can be… if you like.” Thomas scrapes a different knuckle with his bottom teeth and kisses the top, flicking his eyes up to Richard’s face. “Well, how ‘m I doing so far?”

“You run an Earl’s household, Thomas, you’re hardly a country bumpkin.” Richard sighs as Thomas sucks his thumb back into his mouth, taking it deep and eager. “But you’re doing marvelously.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.” Thomas releases Richard’s hand and scrambles up to his knees, pushing Richard back into the bed. Now they are both facing the wrong side of the bed, but it’s of exactly zero importance, as they are kissing the next moment, open-mouthed, lazy and languid. When Thomas finally pulls away, he catches Richard’s eyes trailing from his mouth down to his chest. Following his gaze, Thomas realises there’s still that silvery string clinging to his chest hair. 

“Missed a spot earlier,” he teases, eyebrow raised. “‘s Not like you to be so sloppy, Mr. Ellis.”

“Easy to get distracted with you around,” Richard says, because _of course_ he has a flattering response to just about anything, and he pulls Thomas closer. Pulls him on top of him, to put it more accurately, and Thomas has to fling a leg out and across to make it work. “Especially with your mouth looking like that.”

“And what’s my mouth look like, Mr. Ellis? Tell me.”

“Like you put it to good use,” Richard murmurs, low, and chuckles at Thomas’s scowl - well, what has to pass for one, anyway. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a warm sponge bath later to make up for my soiling you, how’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” Thomas breathes, because it does, and Richard tugs him down by the nape of his neck for another kiss. Thomas can feel Richard’s finger softly scratching at the back of his head as he nudges his tongue into his mouth, which is unbelievably lovely and distracting, but not quite distracting enough to miss the fingers slipping through the hair on his chest in circles, rubbing the stickiness into his skin.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he mutters when the kiss ends, and he can’t resist biting Richard’s bottom lip.

“Do you, Mr. Barrow?”

“Yeah, and I wish I could return the favour.” He is pleased to see the touch of colour rising in Richard’s cheeks. Richard’s fingers touch the bite on his shoulder. Just as he’d said when he made it, it’s a beauty - about the size of a sovereign and already turning purple.

“You could always give me another one of these,” he suggests, with a glint in his eye that can only be described as _coquettish,_ “if you wanted.”

“Richard Ellis,” Thomas says, with a shake of his head, “never met a man as singularly obsessed with my mouth as you are, but I’m not about to deny such a polite request.” Studying Richard’s torso, he gently thumbs at the new bite by his left nipple. “Well, you seemed rather proud of this one, so let’s give it a twin.”

“Please,” Richard breathes, and Thomas, feeling bold like he hasn’t in years, leans down to suck a similar bruise into Richard’s skin by the other nipple. It is odd somehow, to do this while they’re not in the throes, to be this deliberate about it, but at the same time, it means he can give the task his full attention, listen to Richard’s breathing and feel the weight of his hand settle on top of his head, a gentle presence. Somehow, that hand makes him commit to the task even more.

When he pulls away to study the result, he feels a flash of sadness he didn’t expect, but it passes once he sees Richard’s smile. “Something of me to take with you to London,” he says, swallowing suddenly, wondering why he always does this, why does he keep ruining the good moments, why is his throat closing up all of a sudden, why -

Richard’s hand cupping his face reminds him to breathe.

“Thank you, love,” Richard says, with a tender smile, but as they stare at one another that smile turns impish, encouraging Thomas to take what he says next in the spirit it was intended. Lightly drawing his thumb across Thomas’s bottom lip, he adds innocently, “Rather a poor substitute for the real thing, I admit, but I’ll treasure it all the same. Perhaps I will touch it when I pleasure myself in my lonely bed tonight and whisper your name into the darkness.”

_Trust Richard fucking Ellis to not only say such a thing but probably carry it out, too._

“Perhaps you can tell me all about it in your next letter,” Thomas suggests, joining in when Richard laughs, and just like that they are kissing again, kissing exuberantly while still laughing whenever they come up for air, only to crush their mouths in another kiss, and from there things escalate to them spending a heavenly stretch of time rolling around the bed play wrestling like children, scuffling, tickling, pinching, biting, giggling and generally making a mess both of the bed and each other, until they collapse side by side in a breathless sprawl, panting and grinning up at the ceiling. Sore all over and feeling more _alive_ than Thomas remembers doing in a long time. His mouth feels bruised both inside and out - he hopes any unnatural swelling will have gone down by the time he has to face anyone he knows. He doesn’t expect that a story about some pub brawl will convince anyone.

“All this’s made me thirsty,” Thomas finally says, and he shifts his hand across the bed towards Richard, finding his wrist and clasping it. “Spot of tea might be good.”

“Okay,” Richard says brightly. He’s ever so jolly, and Thomas hopes he too will tone it down a notch before walking into Buckingham Palace and facing Lawton and the rest of that stony-faced lot. No man returns from a family visit this happy. “What about food?”

Thomas rubs his stomach. Back in Downton, he would’ve finished breakfast already and gone up with His Lordship’s ironed paper by now. “I could eat,” he admits. Barely has he said it or Richard has already sprung into action, leaning over for one more peck on the lips before swinging his legs over the edge and bounding to his feet. Thomas rolls over onto his stomach and props his chin in his hands to watch Richard walk over to the dresser and pick up the teapot, testing it for temperature. The image of Richard Ellis pouring tea in the nude is one he wants to commit to memory. Richard himself seems completely unaware, or at the very least uncaring of the fact that the dresser is right by the window and he’s standing there wearing nothing but a smile.

“You know,” Thomas says, and he starts to chuckle when Richard sends him a questioning glance over his shoulder, “it’s a good thing the sky and the rain tell no tales, else your fine bum would be the talk of the town, Mr. Ellis.”


	26. Thomas (cont'd)

“Kitten’s the right name for you,” Thomas says, smirking, as he spreads more shampoo between his hands and rubs it into Richard’s hair, rewarded by a low, contented humming that originates deep within his chest. Reclining in the tub, his knees sticking out in a wide ‘V’ shape Thomas couldn’t resist commenting on earlier. _‘s Just you and me here, Mr. Barrow,_ Richard’d said in reply, _and_ _if I had any secrets from you, I wouldn’t keep them between my legs._

Richard sighs, head lolling back heavily. “Thomas, if you’re about to make the obligatory ‘purring’ joke, I’d encourage you to reserve judgment until it’s your turn. See how you fare when the roles are reversed.”

Thomas grins and buries his fingers under Richard’s hair, massaging the back of his scalp and his temples, making sure no foam gets into Richard’s eyes. “Head back,” he instructs, and reaches for the pitcher at his feet, about half filled with warm water from the tub itself. Richard obeys, leaning back with closed eyes as Thomas carefully pours the water over his head, rinsing out the soapy suds.

He hasn’t seen Richard like this before, with his skin glistening wet and his hair plastered to his skull, rivulets of water meandering down his shoulders and arms. Eye lashes wet too, sticking together in pointy clumps. Seated on a stool behind him, Thomas has every opportunity to study him unobserved, to admire the lines of his arms as they rest on the edge of the tub, the jut of his collarbone and the way his neck arches when he tilts his head.

“Sorry for earlier,” Richard says suddenly, just as Thomas is finishing up rinsing the last traces of soap out. He’s soft, sincere about whatever perceived deficiency he is apologising for, and knowing Richard it could be anything. He’d even apologised for the cold eggs and toast earlier, even though it was more than clear whose fault that truly was.

Richard may not actually be a paragon of perfection, as he has promised Thomas up one side and down the other, but he sure as hell would like to be.

“Can’t think what you mean by that, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas says as he puts the pitcher down. Richard is dripping water, head still tilted back, and Thomas keeps his hand on his forehead so he doesn’t get any water in his eyes.

Richard’s cheeks are flushed, but it could just be the hot water. “When you asked if I could take another… stalling, and I said I couldn’t, I - I felt I was letting you down. Not to mention the fact that I all but forgot to do my part at a certain point. I… I promise you I can do better than that.”

Thomas smiles. “Can you, now?”

“I can. I could.” Richard’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his lips parting slightly as Thomas trails the tip of his finger down the slope of his nose. “Could last longer for you.”

“For me,” Thomas repeats thoughtfully. He guides Richard to straighten his head on his shoulders. He looks oddly unfamiliar with his hair slicked flat against his scalp, but it brings out the line of his jaw to an unprecedented degree and he looks more like a god than Thomas can recall him doing before. He isn’t overly muscled, but he is lean and wiry and has lines in his chest and arms in particular that please the eye plenty. He lets his fingers trail to the front, tracing Richard’s collarbone and feeling him tense under his fingertips. “You like to please me, don’t you? You like to be good for me.”

Richard nods his head. Thomas could swear he hasn’t breathed for close to a minute now. “I do… I do, Thomas.”

“I’d like you to practise, then.” Leaning closer, Thomas lets his fingers trail lower, across Richard’s heart, and gently thumbs at the fresh bruise by his nipple. The sight of his left hand touching Richard is jarring, but the glove is still on his bedside table and Richard doesn’t seem to notice or care, which makes pushing through it easier. “Starting tonight, when you are in bed and touch yourself like you said you would, I want you to let yourself get close and then, when you feel you can’t take another touch without coming all over yourself, I want you to pinch yourself like I would, and then wait for a minute before touching yourself again.”

“Uh,” Richard says unintelligibly. He pushes himself against Thomas’s fingers slightly, and Thomas is sure he would be able to go again if he were to let this escalate, but sadly, there is no time left to indulge.

“I know you want to please me,” he goes on, putting his mouth closer to Richard’s ear and dragging his fingers idly through the hair on his sternum. “I know you’ll make the promise readily, Richard, but come tonight I know you won’t want to keep it.”

“I will,” Richard begins to protest, but Thomas stops him. Brings his other hand to the front as well, mirroring the other as he draws lazy patterns on Richard’s skin. Richard breathes out a sigh, leaning a little more of his weight back into Thomas’s shoulder.

“You won’t,” he repeats, gently and kindly, “because I know you, Richard. You say you like it slow, because that’s how you’d prefer to like it, because that’s how you’d like to be for me. But you get impatient, don’t you, when you get to that point where you feel like you just _need to come._ And what can it hurt, after all, to indulge yourself when you’re alone, and I’m not there to remind you how much it would please me to see you hold off for just a bit longer?”

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Richard gives a hesitant nod. “Yes. I get impatient.”

“Yes.” Thomas kisses him below the ear, at the root of his jaw. “So tonight, and whenever you pleasure yourself from here on out, I want you to think of me when you’re about to come and try to hold yourself back from it, even when you think you can’t do it. Even when you have three or four fingers inside of yourself, thinking of my cock fucking you -” He feels a shudder pass through Richard’s body and nips at his earlobe. “Even then, I want you to stop before you come off, and breathe, and think of how pleased I would be to see you being so good.”

“God, Thomas -”

Richard’s breathy, needy whimper goes straight to Thomas’s gut, encouraging him to continue, because God help him, he is doing something _right_ here, whatever it is, and it feels incredible. He’ll be sodding off to bed early himself tonight at this rate - _with_ that damn letter - and leave everyone downstairs scratching their heads.

“Don’t pull out, though,” he murmurs into Richard’s ear, fingers still caressing him idly. “I want you to stop but not pull out, because I wouldn’t pull out if I was fucking you, would I?” Richard shakes his head, seemingly entranced by his words. “No, I would not. I’d stay right there, all the way inside of you, and watch you squirm and tremble with the need for more. And that’s what I want you to do when you are curled up on your back impaled on your own fingers, to wait and feel them resting inside of you even when you are dying to let yourself come off. Even when you are so hard you think you might burst. You will do that for me, won’t you?”

Once again, Richard manages little more than a sigh. _“Yes.”_ But it’s not enough, apparently, because all of a sudden he’s grasped Thomas’s forearm and is clutching it as if for dear life. “I will, Thomas, I promise, I just - oh please, don’t leave me, I can’t… I can’t do it alone. I can’t _go_ it alone.”

The outburst is so unexpected that Thomas doesn’t quite know how to respond at first, but it’s clear Richard is distraught and so he wraps his arms around him on instinct, kissing his jaw and burying his face against his neck. After two days in the country, cutting wood and chasing chickens, the prospect of going back to London and rejoining the stony-faced lot must be rather daunting, Thomas can understand that.

“You won’t be going it alone,” he murmurs once he senses Richard has breathed through the worst of whatever just came over him. “I’m always there, didn’t you say so yourself? In every room of Buckingham Palace. And I’ll write, and I’ll call. Rather, Timothy Bryce will.” He chuckles, and even though Richard doesn’t join in, his tense muscles relax some. “Yeah, I have a feeling Mr. Bryce will be calling for Mr. Ellis quite regularly from now on.”

“Mr. Ellis feels rather silly for being like this,” Richard says hoarsely, rubbing Thomas’s forearm, “but he’d like Mr. Bryce to know he’s very grateful, and he’ll be waiting by the telephone with bated breath.”

“Don’t call yourself silly,” Thomas chides him gently, and kisses his cheek. “That’s my prerogative.” It finally coaxes a chuckle from Richard, and he gives his chest a final rub, his cheek a last kiss. “C’mon, let me have my turn while the water’s still warm. You said five minutes would do it and it’s been almost double that, you must be a cooked lobster by now.”

They trade places as previously agreed, Richard sloshing water everywhere as he climbs out of the tub - sadly, it’s too small for the both of them to use, else they would have done - and not even that bothered about it until Thomas hurriedly hands him a towel. He half-heartedly dabs himself with it here and there and then wraps it about his hips before sitting down.

“Don’t look at me if you end up catching cold this weekend,” Thomas says as he submerges himself in the tub, sighing blissfully at the way the warm water envelopes him.

Still, taking a hot bath has never quite regained its relaxing properties, for him. But he has a feeling that today he’s going to enjoy it more than usual.

Richard grins. “I won’t.”

 _Because I won’t be there to make you cold compresses and bring you hot grog,_ he might have joked some other time, but it wouldn’t be so funny now. He reaches for the sponge floating in the water, but Richard beats him to it.

“Lean back, Mr. Bryce, and let me take care of you.”

Smiling, Thomas settles back against the rim of the tub, facing away from Richard, just as Richard was doing earlier. “Are you often ill?” he asks, and chuckles, as it reminds him of a different occasion, when he asked Richard a similar question. The tone was different then, though.

“Oh, yeah, quite a bit,” Richard says, nonchalant. “As a child I was a tough little tyke, but the war made quite a sickly adult of me. I usually catch cold a couple times each winter - and as you know, winter in London starts in July.” He laughs, and Thomas laughs with him, albeit rather disingenuously. “And then there’s the old war wound, of course - it can always be counted upon to let me know when I’ve taken on too much, as you’ve witnessed for yourself.”

“And that’s… often?”

Richard shrugs. “Oh well, you know,” is all he says, and it’s answer enough. For a few minutes, Thomas lets the topic rest, enjoying the gentle splash of the water as Richard draws the sponge along his arms and shoulders, and in broad circles around his chest. His back gets a gentle scrubbing and even his armpits are not forgotten. Then, finally -

“Lean your head back, love.”

It comes as no big surprise that Richard’s hands are good at this too, and Thomas can hear the first low moan escape his chest when the tepid water from the pitcher gently pours over his scalp.

“Don’t gloat,” he tells Richard, even though his eyes are closed, but he can practically feel his smirk burning into the back of his skull. “It’s not the way of a gentleman.”

Richard sniggers. “I could answer that the same way you did.”

“You’re more a gentleman than I am.”

“Oh? How do you figure that?”

“Don’t know.” It’s true, he’s not really sure where he’s going with this, but since Richard seems intrigued, he makes an effort to answer. “You’re quite the metropolitan man, aren’t you? Know your way around London, know the latest fashions, travel abroad quite a bit?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“But you’re all for those country pursuits, as well. I’ve never met a London-based gentleman who wasn’t carrying on a torrid love affair with the country on the side. Hunting, fishing, hiking - I bet you could even ride a horse if given the opportunity.”

“I did ride a couple times as a lad,” Richard muses. “Just a turn of the meadow, mind you, nothing very adventurous.”

Thomas smiles, unsurprised that Richard has a story about this, too. “See?”

“Not a big fan of hunting, though,” Richard goes on. He uncaps the shampoo bottle. “Fox hunting, awful - never saw the appeal there. And I always feel… I don’t know, such a sense of regret when His Majesty brings down a fourteen-pointer stag when he goes shooting at Balmoral. I admit I have occasionally wondered if I could shoot a grouse in full flight, but… nah, if I want to test my hand-eye coordination I can do it at the fair, no bloodshed necessary. I had my fill of that in Flanders and France.”

“I killed a bird once.” Richard’s fingers grow still for a moment in Thomas’s hair, and something cold settles in his stomach. He isn’t quite sure what’s prompted him to share this story, especially since it stands in such stark contrast to Richard’s childhood memories. “My father used to go shooting birds, up in the woods near where we lived. Pigeons mostly, because they’re fat and slow. Took them home to my Mum to put on the table for dinner, because it was a rare day that we’d have the money for decent meat from the butcher.”

“Yeah,” Richard says quietly, even though Thomas would estimate that the Ellises were probably a step up from that sort of poverty. Besides, they only had one mouth to feed and the Barrows had three.

“I think I was… about eight or nine, when he first started taking me with him, teaching me how to shoot. Because that’s what real men do, you know? That’s what he kept drilling into my head. Real men hunt, real men provide for their family. I don’t know if he already had his suspicions about me then - I was good at kicking a ball around, my one saving grace. But I hated those hunting trips, was miserable every time. When I shot my first pigeon, I was elated for about a minute. I thought the bastard would like me for it and be proud. That I had proven myself the son he wanted.”

“I’m going to wager a guess and say that’s not what ended up happening,” Richard says. His fingers are moving slowly in Thomas’s hair, covering every inch of Thomas’s scalp, and it feels nice. So nice in fact that he wonders why he’s dredging up this old story at a time like this.

“What little credit I had earned shooting the bird, I lost when we came home and he told me to pluck the bird and gut it for dinner. I wasn’t squeamish, or anything, but I just wanted to go play, not be stuck inside with my Mum getting my hands on a dead bird’s innards. I argued it was a woman’s job, because I thought he’d be sensitive to that, but he struck me across the face and told me _a real man_ skins and guts his first kill, and only a si-” He stumbles on the word, his tongue suddenly in knots.

Richard gently flicks his ear. “Always hated that word too. Once, I heard a boy whisper it to me at church. I was eleven - never walked hand in hand with my Mum again after that. But I heard it a lot at school, in the neighbourhood.”

“Not at home, though,” Thomas says, soft, and he feels Richard hesitate for a second.

“No. Thankfully, never at home.”

They are both silent then, and once Thomas relaxes, it doesn’t take long for Richard’s fingers to coax their first proper moan from him.

“All right, I admit it,” he says when he hears Richard’s chuckle behind him. “This feels really good, Mr. Ellis, and you got me purring like a kitten drunk on milk.”

“Mmm, no, not a kitten,” Richard says thoughtfully. “A tomcat.”

He sounds a little too pleased with himself. Thomas’s ears prick up.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’ll be my nickname for you when you’re like this - languishing, enjoying yourself. Enjoying my hands.” Richard gives Thomas’s hair a gentle tug, and Thomas curls back against the rim of the tub involuntarily, mouth dropping open on another moan. “Not Tom, or Tommy. Tomcat.”

It’s… original, he’ll give him that. Thomas doesn’t have it in him to raise protests, a disgruntled “We’ve got ourselves a theme here, huh,” is all he can manage.

“It’s as good a theme as any.” Richard indulges Thomas by scratching his head for another minute, but the water, steaming when Richard got into the tub, no longer is. Richard tests it with his fingers and reaches for the pitcher. “Going to rinse you now, keep those pretty eyes closed for a bit longer.”

It’ll never cease to boggle Thomas’s mind to hear Richard almost thoughtlessly say things like that, as if they just enter his brain on a whim and spill out of his mouth unfiltered.

He’s afraid he’s going to miss it more than he would care to admit to out loud, but at least he’ll have the letter to take out and pore over whenever he might need to absorb some of those words again - lovely words of ardour and admiration he still can’t believe someone would ascribe to _him._

“You like my eyes?”

Richard gently tips the pitcher, pouring out water over Thomas’s head to rinse out the shampoo. “I do, very much.”

“Mentioned them in your letter.”

“I mentioned a lot of things in the letter.” The flow of water trickles off and stops - the pitcher’s empty. “I think I wanted another chance to finish that list I started our first night here - I realised I never got to go higher up than your thighs before you commandeered that conversation.”

Thomas smiles, appreciating the jab. “Oh, I think you got to go quite a bit higher, Mr. Ellis. You had my mouth more than once, ‘s I recall.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Richard says primly, but he laughs. “But yeah, I did.”

“Had me various ways,” Thomas goes on, because he loves how talking about their exploits gives him that satisfying little tug deep inside his belly. He wonders if Richard feels the same.

“I did. Although I can think of a few we didn’t get around to.”

The tugging below Thomas’s navel becomes a pulling, a reaction he observes with amazement, wondering for just how long they could keep doing this if given the opportunity. If they had nowhere to be, no people to meet, no public roles to fulfil - how long could they stay confined and keep riling each other up before they were both satisfied or driven mad with cabin fever, whichever came first.

It’s a pointless thought, but an intriguing one all the same.

“Another topic for you to cover in your future letters, perhaps,” he says, fully aware that he’s not exactly being subtle, but damn if that letter from this morning didn’t whet his appetite for more titillating correspondence in future and _bugger the risks_.

Getting well-laid has made him reckless. He hopes reason will return as normal life resumes, but paradoxically, dreads the prospect at the same time.

“Demanding, aren't we, Mr. Barrow.” Richard grins and spreads his hands on Thomas’s shoulders, leaning in to dot them and his nape with kisses. “C'mon, let's get you dry before you’re squatting in freezing cold water.”

With regret, Thomas gets out of the tub, and is promptly seated on the stool and wrapped in a towel while another, smaller one is taken to his hair. Part of him wants to protest he’s not some invalid, but Richard seems to thrive on the opportunity to be a caretaker - the breakfast was just another example - and he can’t bring himself to deny him that.

“I mean it,” he resumes, though he isn’t sure that he does. “You could send anonymous letters and put them chock full of the filthy things you’d like to do to me - or you’d like to be done to you. You could even use that trick again, if you don't trust me not to let them fall into the wrong hands.”

Richard sighs. “It's not that I don't trust you, but - wait, what trick?”

“Well, the handwriting trick.” Richard gapes at him, and Thomas feels a twinge of impatience. “Come, Richard, don’t tell me you forged a woman’s handwriting by accident.”

“Thomas, I - I don’t know what to say.” Richard shakes his head. His astonishment seems sincere, and Thomas can see that he isn’t being had. “Did I… did I truly use a woman’s handwriting?”

“Don’t tempt me to march you into the bedroom and show you right this very minute,” Thomas says, because once up, his hackles don’t come down in a hurry. “I know your handwriting, Richard, and that wasn’t it. Unless the handwriting you’ve been using in your letters all along isn’t yours either.” He raises his eyebrows, and Richard crumbles a little before his eyes.

That was… uncalled for. Thomas sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to imply - I’m sorry.”

Richard makes for a miserable sight, stricken and wounded, his arms limp by his sides. “Guess I really do put up a smokescreen, huh,” he mutters at the floor, “even if I’m not aware I’m doing it.”

“Are you telling me,” Thomas says slowly, trying to understand, “that you _did_ do it by accident?”

“No, no…” Richard shakes his head again, clearly struggling to put this puzzle together even for himself. “I mean, yes, I did it subconsciously, because I have no memory of _deciding_ to do it, and forgery’s a skill I have used more than once in the past when writing letters of a - an incriminating nature, but I swear I wasn't trying to..." He seems to stumble here, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. 

“To do what?” Seeing Richard’s distress, whatever the cause may be, prompts Thomas to reach out and take his hand, even if he does have mixed feelings about the idea of this not being Richard’s first erotic letter.

“... to, to deceive, or play tricks or make you feel like I wrote that letter as a prank, a bit of tomfoolery. I meant every word, you have to believe me.”

“Except the turtle-dove.” Thomas smiles and gently rubs Richard’s knuckles. “We’ve been over that. Call me tomcat if it pleases you, but I draw the line at turtle-dove.”

Richard takes a breath and manages a wan smile in return. “Right. But - but you do believe me? Thomas, you were so happy with the letter, it would break my heart to know I spoiled it for you -”

“Of course I believe you,” Thomas says earnestly, and sees the beginning of relief dawn in Richard’s face. “And how could it be spoiled for me, when it’s something I can take out and look at and be reminded of how you feel about me? If anything, I’m grateful for your cunning ways - I couldn’t very well keep the thing if it had your hand and your name on it.”

Richard nods, uncertain still, but at least Thomas’s words of reassurance seem to have accomplished their intended goal. “I don’t know, Thomas,” he says, soft, forlorn. “I don’t know why this comes so easily to me. The words, the stories. The smoke and the mirrors, the white rabbit I can usually pull out of my hat when I’m in a tight spot.”

Thomas smiles. He can see a certain irony in what Richard is doing here - using imagery and metaphors to apologise for, well, being the smoothest talker to ever come out of the three ridings of Yorkshire - and what is more, he doesn’t even seem to realise it. “Well, I’ve been described as someone with a card or two up his sleeve, so we’re a fine pair of tricksters put together, even if my schemes usually came to nothing.” He stops to lick his lips here, because thinking about those times always evokes a bitter taste in his mouth. “And I was certainly happy to see that white rabbit in the shape of a police officer opening the door to my cell last July, so… don’t think about it anymore, Richard, and let’s finish up here.”

Then, on impulse, he cups Richard’s cheek and kisses him, which is not exactly conducive to what he just proposed they should do, but when he pulls away Richard is smiling again, and that is worth more.

“Your hair is getting long,” Richard muses aloud, and he reaches up to thoughtfully brush Thomas’s forelock away from his forehead, out of his eyes. “I first realised last night, but it’s more noticeable now.”

“Yeah.” Thomas shrugs. “Phyllis usually gives it a trim now and then after work hours, so I don’t have to waste a half day on a trip into the village, but she’s been making long hours at the sewing machine lately and I didn’t want to add to her workload. So I’ve been putting it off, which is why it’s a bit out of control at the moment, but I can still slick it into shape without looking the fool.”

That’s a lot of words to waste on a damn haircut - Richard’s verbosity must be starting to rub off on him.

“I could give it a trim, if you like.” Richard offers, with a smile that seems to say nothing in the world would please him more. “So Miss Baxter can keep her focus on mending and you don’t lose a half day to idle gossip at the barber shop.”

“You know how to do that?” Richard nods, and Thomas permits himself an exasperated eyeroll - in good humour, of course. “I ought t’have guessed - Richard Ellis, man of many talents. All right, have at it, so long as you don't nick me an ear or an eye. I don't much fancy walking into Downton sporting a Van Gogh look.”

The eyeroll he gets in return is entirely deserved.

“Where did you learn?” he asks when Richard positions himself in front of him, armed with a comb and a small pair of scissors he unearthed from among the toiletries in his suitcase. “The army?”

“No, but it certainly came in handy there.” Richard runs his comb through Thomas’s wet hair, using his fingers to measure how much to take off. “Learned a lot of other things in the army, though. Driving, mending, about two dozen obscure card games, French words I wouldn’t dare to repeat in front of my Mum. To this day, I could walk into any brothel between Dunkerque and Toulouse and ask the madam in fluent French for an hour with a buxom blonde.”

“Learned to shoot a fellow man in the army,” Thomas adds, earnest, and he feels Richard’s hand go still for a moment.

“Yeah.”

“Did you?” Thomas puts his hands on Richard’s waist, steadying. He doesn’t know why he’s bringing this up, why he’s asking, this isn’t pigeons they’re talking about, it’s the fucking _war._

“Yeah.” Richard swallows. “I moved my finger and a couple Huns never made it home. Never saw their faces clearly, thank God, or they’d haunt me to this day. But I think about them, on Remembrance Day and Easter Sunday. The rest of the year, I try not to.”

“Why Easter?”

Richard ducks his head. “At Easter we celebrate the resurrection of Christ, who died for our sins so that we might be forgiven and be accepted into the Kingdom of God. So I say a prayer for the men I killed, and hope for Him to forgive me.”

At this point, Thomas isn’t terribly surprised to hear Richard say these things, but the sincerity with which he speaks of his faith and relationship with his God (not Thomas’s God, because even as a child he never placed much credence in the gospels) does take him aback. Touches a chord in him, even, to tell the truth of it - more so because he gets the feeling Richard doesn’t share these personal experiences easily or often. It is rather humbling, Thomas finds, to be granted this degree of confidence, and it isn’t to be handled callously. His own personal beliefs may be different, but when Richard speaks of sin and prayer and eternal salvation like this, Thomas doesn’t hear some priest sermonising from the pulpit, and the urge to challenge what is being said is absent.

He doesn’t know these feelings and experiences Richard is speaking of, but he wants to at least try and understand them. He reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of Richard’s neck, stroking the nape with his thumb.

“There was a war,” he says, rather pointlessly, but simple truths are still truths. “We were following orders and so were they. You did what you had to do, Richard. It was either that or look down the barrel of a gun yourself, and any God I’d care to believe in would tell you a choice like that is no choice at all.”

He is stacking platitude upon platitude and he knows it, but it is the best he has to offer and somehow he must have struck the right note, because Richard leans his forehead against his and breathes out, “Thank you.” He stays like that for a minute and Thomas is in no hurry to pull away, keeping his hand on the back of Richard’s neck.

“Are you all right?” he asks when they’ve both been quiet for a while.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry for mentioning it. Was a bit blunt about it.”

“Don’t be. You can ask me about anything.” Richard straightens up, and even to Thomas’s watchful eye he appears to be all right. “Did you, ever -?”

Thomas shakes his head. “I was in the medical corps. Spent most of my time hauling stretchers around, and whenever there was an attack, I ran. Did a lot of running. Carried that rifle for decoration more than anything.”

He is mocking himself here, mocking the fact that he spent over two years in the service of King and Country - he has the fucking medals to prove it - and yet he has no heroic stories to tell, no shining moments of bravery or noble sacrifice to take pride in, absolutely nothing to counterbalance the cowardly exit he ended up taking. His service was entirely unremarkable, one might even say redundant. He carried stretchers and applied tourniquets and hid, and for every soldier he may somehow have saved, he watched nine others die under his very eyes. But Private Ellis of the Yorkshire regiment was not one of them. If their paths were meant to cross, he is glad it happened much later.

“I’m grateful,” Richard says, almost as if he can read Thomas’s thoughts. “I’m grateful you don’t have to live with that burden.”

“So ‘m I.”

They smile at one another, and Thomas wonders if perhaps the purpose of serving one’s country in a war isn’t to return home with tales of bravery and heroic deeds, or even to return home as victors. Perhaps the true purpose is far more prosaic - to simply come out the other end alive.

“So… how did you learn, then?” Thomas asks, nodding at the scissors in Richard’s hand. Richard smiles sheepishly, as if only just now remembering where all this began.

“By trial and error, really. Back when I was a footman in London. Theo taught me the ropes, let me practise on him, being the good man that he was. He had a nice, full head of hair, but he wasn’t vain about it. Still isn’t. But then, the older we get, the less there is to be vain about.”

“You’re still in touch? After twenty years?”

Richard nods. “Correspondence mostly, but we do usually manage to meet up once or twice a year. He left service after the war and moved away from London. These days he works as a buyer for a clothing manufacturer. Travels all over the country to meet with suppliers. Seems well-suited for it, ‘s far as I can tell.”

“Married?” Thomas asks, curious, and when Richard shakes his head, it is on the tip of his tongue to ask if they were ever more than friends, however briefly, but in the end he decides it’d be wrong to pry - even if Richard did say he could ask him any question.

Some other time, perhaps.

“He sounds like a good bloke,” he offers instead, and Richard gives him a beaming smile in return.

“Might be you’ll meet him one day,” he says and it’s difficult not to notice the hopeful note in his voice as he says it. Thomas has to swallow something down - an inconvenient emotion - before he can reply.

“Might be I will.”

Meanwhile, Richard has had his fingers buried in Thomas’s hair all this time and has yet to make his first cut. He lifts the scissors, squares his shoulders as if to shake off the weight of all they’ve been discussing, but something stays his hand at the last second, yet again. “Thomas, I - I was wondering if -”

He doesn’t finish, and Thomas can see embarrassment plain as day in his eyes, along with something else, something that has Thomas prompting, “What? Tell me.” When Richard looks down, as if the courage he needs to continue might be found on the floor, Thomas squeezes his waist until he meets his gaze. “Please, Richard. Tell me.”

“Might I - might I take a lock of your hair, Thomas, to keep? Something… of you, something tangible, to remember you by?”

He looks anxious, as if he’s fully expecting Thomas to laugh or shoot his hopes out of the sky with a sarcastic retort - wasn’t even forty-eight hours ago that he told Richard they weren’t _school girls with a crush_ , he thinks his exact words were - but looking at Richard’s face right now, that thought doesn’t even enter his head.

Instead, he feels ashamed at the realisation that he already has the fob Richard gave him and now the letter to take with him as a keepsake and yet it never occurred to him to give Richard a token in return until the man _asked._ He didn’t even send him a gift for Christmas, which retroactively doesn’t make him feel good at all. And St. Valentine’s is coming up in a couple days and he never thought to prepare for that either.

He is so bad, so incredibly bad at this.

So he says, “All right,” and feels a little better at the way Richard’s face changes, breaking open into a tremulous smile.

“Are you sure?” he asks, but Thomas can tell he doesn’t truly want him to reconsider - and he won’t. “I - I can just snip a small lock off the top and cut the rest so no one will notice... unless they get up close.”

“Not planning on letting anyone get up close.” Thomas lifts his chin up and holds Richard’s eye, fond and steady. “Do it.”

Richard does as he said and takes a lock of about two and a half inches in length off the top of Thomas’s head, showing it to Thomas before bringing it to his lips. Richard is a peacock, they both know that and Thomas will probably never get tired of teasing him for it, but there's no trace of that flamboyance now. It's a simple, understated gesture, something he's doing for himself with no aim to impress or to woo. It is sweet, and precious, and Thomas suspects he must look like the most fucking besotted fool as he observes Richard carefully wrap his token into his kerchief.

“Where will you keep it?” he asks.

“In my diary, for now, I think. Until I find a more suitable place.” Richard looks, for just a moment, as though he doesn’t quite know what to say. “Thank you, Thomas. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

“Of course, you silly man. If anything, I should have offered you something of my own accord.” Thomas grasps his hand. “And blessed St. Valentine’s.”

Well, there’s a sequence of words that hasn’t left his mouth before. Never had anyone to say it _to_.

It feels good. And Richard, by the look of him, couldn’t be a more delighted recipient. The fact that they’re three days early doesn’t seem to detract from that at all.

“Blessed St. Valentine’s, Thomas.” Still looking stunned, almost overwhelmed, Richard squeezes his hand. And Thomas, smiling, gives it a tug.

“Thought you were supposed to kiss your sweetheart after saying that,” he suggests, because he missed his chance at New Year’s and here is an opportunity to set things right. “Don’t want to invoke the wrath of Saint Valentine, do we?”

Richard laughs and leans down and kisses him, sweetly on the lips, exactly as Thomas once imagined they would at an occasion such as this. In three days, everyone at Downton’s going to be all atwitter with the usual excitement, the unattached maids as well as the established couples, and for once he may not feel quite as isolated from all that as he normally does.

He’ll have to be careful not to be too giddy, or mouths downstairs are going to be flapping.

After this, Richard finally gets to the task of trimming Thomas’s hair, and soon the only sounds that can be heard are that of Richard’s bare feet on the floor as he moves this way and that, their breathing and the metallic _snip-snip_ of the scissors. Richard doesn’t rush, he wants to be diligent about it, and Thomas isn’t about to speak out against that, as he finds himself enjoying the experience of being pampered and the recurring presence of Richard’s fingers in his hair, on his scalp. But Richard himself is just as captivating as he is doing this, performing his duty as attentively as if Thomas were the King himself, except for the fact that he is still half naked after his bath, a towel slung about his hips, his hair damp and disheveled, shaving at least ten years off his natural age and making him look boyish. There is simply _something_ about watching him do a task he's so good at that it might be his daily work, something about feeling and seeing his hands move with that kind of calm confidence, and Thomas is entranced, enchanted.

All the same, he closes his eyes after a few minutes to enjoy the moment more fully, and doesn’t open them again until Richard announces he is done, carefully lifting away the towel he’s used to catch most of the trimmings from Thomas’s head and carrying it to the window to shake it out. Thomas inspects the result in the mirror, turning his head this way and that until Richard reemerges behind him and kisses his shoulder. “Is it to your liking?”

“It’s very good.” Thomas smiles at him in the mirror. “You are very good, Mr. Ellis.”

They brush their teeth and shave, mostly in silence, and don’t say much as they get dressed either, although Thomas does permit himself a covert ogle followed by an off-colour comment as Richard, dressed in his underwear, bends over to pull up his hose and attach the garters. It earns him a shy grin and a damp washcloth tossed in his direction that he dodges quite easily.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Ellis,” he teases, and they get distracted kissing for a minute before they pull away reluctantly to finish the task of dressing, while Thomas can’t help but reflect wistfully on how much nicer it would be to just get back into bed instead and stay there for the foreseeable future. Why hadn’t they done that the day before? Why get dressed and be productive at all, when for once in their lives they could just stay abed and have sex however much they could manage it?

This is just a fleeting fancy, of course. They are working class men, not wired for idleness. He doesn’t think either of them would last at it very long before getting restless.

“Can’t believe this,” he hears Richard mutter, and turns to find him dressed in trousers and shirtsleeves, his braces loose about the hips and shirt done up part way. “Can’t find my bloody cufflinks, where did I put them?”

A light goes on in Thomas’s mind. “They’re on your bedside table.”

Richard straightens up in surprise. “Why would I put them there of all places?”

“I don’t know, love, but that’s where I saw them. I notice things too, you know.” Teasing, he curls his arms around Richard’s waist from behind and kisses his neck. “Are we a bit scatterbrained this morning?”

Richard sighs and Thomas can feel some of his body weight shifting back against him. “If I am, it's entirely your fault, Barrow. After all, I'm not very used to having the most handsome man in the world suck me off first thing in the morning.”

_Jesus fucking Christ._

Thomas nips at his ear and slides his hand down to Richard’s arse for a pinch, eliciting a very undignified squeak. “Careful with that silver tongue, Mr. Ellis, you’re bound to wear it out sometime.”

Richard only grins at him and turns around, clearly offering his mouth for another kiss, but Thomas resists for a change, murmuring, “Pull up your braces and do up your shirt, Mr. Ellis, you look like a tramp off the street,” as he guides the elastic straps over Richard’s shoulders and works his way up the row of buttons - and if he happens to take one last fond look at the marks left by his teeth, what of it? He’s proud of them, as he’s proud of Richard’s mark on his own shoulder. Invisible though it may be to everyone else, _he_ will know it is there and remember how it was put there. A little more risqué, albeit not by much, is the missing lock of hair on his head, but as he already reassured Richard, no one is going to get close enough to notice.

Still, knowing that it’s there - or, rather, _not_ there - and that he is wearing at least one mark of Richard’s out in the open, gives him a thrill deep in his belly.

“Kiss me, Thomas,” Richard cajoles, and this time Thomas isn’t as strong, so yet more time is spent on snogging that could have gone into more useful things - like combing their hair, to name just one, or _finish bloody dressing like civilised men_ \- but as he slips his tongue into Richard’s mouth, Thomas estimates he isn’t about to hear any complaints about the lack of efficiency.

“Do you need help with those cufflinks, too,” he finally breathes against Richard’s mouth, and Richard nods.

“I may just, Mr. Barrow, if you don’t mind?” Richard strokes the silk of Thomas’s loose tie. “I’m quite useless with them.”

As if he would be, the cheeky bugger.

They do eventually make it downstairs fully dressed and groomed, Thomas insisting on carrying Richard’s suitcase in spite of Richard’s protestations that he is quite all right to do it himself and Thomas really needn’t bother with the gallantry. He places both their suitcases in the hallway, next to the chest with old photographs, to put into the car later.

“Shall I make us some tea?” Richard asks, a little too hopeful, and Thomas wants to tease him he’s being transparent, but he refrains.

“Why don’t I do that,” he says instead, and lays his hand on Richard’s hip as he walks past him, “while you try and find your Mum’s ginger shortbread that you mentioned - you weren’t planning on keeping that all to yourself, were you?”

When he comes out of the kitchen ten minutes later with a tea tray, Richard has taken off his jacket and installed himself on the sofa in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The fireplace has been cleaned, the cold ashes swept up and thrown out, but the old clock is still hanging in its spot on the wall above the mantle.

“I’m not forgetting,” Richard says when he sees Thomas’s look. “I just… didn’t want to take it down quite yet. I thought we might hear it strike once more before we have to leave.”

Sentimental, that one. Thomas blinks.

“Might be your Mum will let you take it with you to London.”

Richard smiles. “‘s Not my intention, Thomas. It wouldn’t be well-placed in my little attic room. Mum will give it pride of place - it’s hers now.”

“As is this house.”

Richard nods and casts a slow look around, fond and wistful. “Yeah.”

“I hope she doesn’t sell.” Thomas leans down to place the tray on the side table and sneaks a piece of shortbread into his mouth. They’ll end up getting crumbs all over them, but oh, who cares anyway? He straightens up and meets Richard’s gaze. “That’d be a real shame.”

“It would.”

They inhale the shortbread - it is excellent - and savour their tea, spending most of that time in silence again, not touching but close enough that Thomas can feel the heat of Richard’s body next to him. He is going to miss that - in bed most of all - but he pushes that thought away forcibly.

“What about your uncle’s chap?” he asks, rather out of the blue even to himself. “Johnnie - are you going to try and find out where he is?”

“If he is still alive.” Richard nods, eyes unfocused as he peers into his cup. “Yeah, I would like to find him, if I can, even if I have no idea where to start. I’d love to have a chat with the bloke.”

“Well, I hope you will be successful, and let me know how you get on.” Thomas reaches for Richard’s knee and rubs it. “Even if I can’t do much from where I am, I - I’d like to be involved any way I can, writing letters, or… even going into York, if I must.”

“Even that, huh?” Richard smiles at him, acknowledging this final remark for the quip it is. He covers his hand with his own. “Thank you, love, that means quite a lot to me. Just so long as you’re -”

“Circumspect?” Thomas chuckles. “Never you worry, Mr. Ellis. I am learning from the best, where that’s concerned.”

After tea, they clean up the last traces of habitation downstairs, and after the clock has chimed the twelfth hour - that late already! They really have had a lazy morning - Richard takes it off the wall and carries it into the hallway. They make several trips to the car until there is nothing left but an empty basket.

“I wanted to return that to the friendly lady down the road,” Richard explains as he wraps his scarf around his neck and tucks it into his coat. He reaches for their hats on the shelf and gives Thomas his, fiddling with his own. “Thank her for the eggs this morning and let her know we’re heading off. I won’t be long.”

“I’ll come with.”

“Oh.” Richard looks sheepish. “Of course, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to.”

“I do, rather.” Thomas turns his hat around in his hands, both of them hesitating bareheaded. He distractedly reaches up to pluck a piece of lint off of Richard’s shoulder, and then, somehow, they are kissing again, clutching to each other as if for dear life, lingering like that, with Richard’s arms around Thomas’s waist and vice versa.

“Will you be all right?” Thomas hears himself asking, pulling back to look Richard in the eyes. “When you are back in London?”

Richard seems surprised by his emphatic prodding. “Of course I will.”

He smiles, reassuring, but Thomas remembers what had happened in the bathroom earlier. The way Richard had seemed to grow a little smaller as he spoke of London.

“Do you promise?”

Richard reaches for his hand and brings it to his mouth. “Of course I’ll be all right,” he says, earnest, even if he appears to avoid Thomas’s eyes. “Aren’t I always? I was just being silly earlier, Thomas.”

Thomas wants to be convinced. God, does he ever. But somehow, as they stand there embracing on the cusp of the reality they are about to reenter, trying to wring even these final moments dry, he thinks he can see cracks in Richard’s once impenetrable façade and what lies beneath makes him want to take off his coat and hang up his hat and bolt that fucking door until everyone out there forgets they exist.

“Come on,” Richard says, a little too brightly, and he puts his hat on with a flourish. “The train to Downton waits for no man, Mr. Barrow - with a little luck, we’ll get you on it with time to spare for a stop at the kiosk. I assume you’ll want to buy a newspaper and get caught up on what happened in the world while we were cocooned in here.”

The world might as well have burned to cinders for all Thomas cares, but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he takes a deep breath. Losing themselves in sentimentality won't make this any easier; best to just… keep good cheer and get this over with quickly and efficiently. “Right,” he concedes with a sigh and follows Richard's example, putting on his hat, "done with the life of leisure, Mr. Ellis. Once more unto the breach we go, as good soldiers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue up next... thanks to everyone who commented on the previous chapter, each of you are owed a reply still but I wanted to give you all a shoutout here too <3


	27. Phyllis (Epilogue)

“What do you think you’re doing, Albert? Get out of that chair before Mr. Barrow sees you.”

“But, Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Barrow’s not here. The chair’s been sitting here unused for two days, what can it hurt if I -”

“What can it hurt?” The keys at Mrs. Hughes’s hip jangle as she moves from the doorway and enters the servants’ hall. “You didn’t have such a cheek on you when you were the hall boy, lad. Need I remind you of the good turn Mr. Barrow did you by giving you the position of footman after Andy gave his notice, over any of the more experienced young men who applied for the job?”

“No, Mrs. Hughes, I am very grateful for Mr. Barrow’s kindness in taking me on.”

“Then I suggest you don’t repay it by falling behind on your work in his absence and mouthing off. Go on, off with you.”

Duly chastised and blushing, Albert leaps out of the rocking chair and hurries out, past Phyllis, who looks up from her needle and thread to give him an encouraging smile. He doesn’t acknowledge it, possibly because he can feel the housekeeper’s hawk-like eyes following him out of the room, but she is almost sure that he notices.

“That boy,” Mrs. Hughes mutters as she pulls back a chair and sits down with a weary sigh. She then catches Phyllis looking at her. “Did you think me unduly harsh to the lad, Miss Baxter? Out with it, then.”

“He was only resting his legs for a few minutes, Mrs. Hughes,” Phyllis says diplomatically. “He’s been on his feet since this morning.” She smiles. “And he’s right - it does seem silly that no one uses the rocker during Mr. Barrow’s absence. He’d be the first to say it, too. Goodness, one might think Mr. Barrow’s the worst sort of tyrant and we’re all quaking in our boots at the thought of bringing down his wrath upon us.”

“A tyrant! No, indeed.” Mrs. Hughes chuckles, but there is no real spirit behind it. She has looked drawn lately, and although Phyllis hasn’t had the heart to ask, she wonders if Mr. Carson’s condition has worsened since he was last seen at the house. “I’ll grant you, I have heard him called many words since he showed up on our doorstep twenty years ago, but never that.”

Phyllis puts down her mending and stares at the table. She doesn’t ask about the other words - she can guess as to what they are and has no desire to hear them. At any rate, Mrs. Hughes is too kind and too ladylike to repeat them even if she were to ask. “You have to admit, Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Barrow has proven himself a worthy successor to Mr. Carson as head of the household. Mr. Carson set a formidable example, but Mr. Barrow has done very well in his own right, as even his greatest critics must agree.”

“He is very capable, I’ll concede him that,” Mrs. Hughes says, thoughtful, and Phyllis wonders if there’s a caveat coming. “But then the trouble with Thomas was never a lack of ability, since he was always a precocious young lad. It was the way he chose to use his abilities, or rather abuse them, that I took issue with. He could be a terrible bully, especially to the younger staff. Older staff too, come to think of it, but at least Mr. Bates gave as good as he got.”

Phyllis opens her mouth, but before she can speak out in Thomas’s defence - she has done a lot of that during her tenure here, and at times she’s felt that hers is a voice crying in the wilderness - Mrs. Hughes raises her hand. “Before you jump down my throat, Miss Baxter, let me point out that I spoke in the past tense. Mr. Barrow’s character has much improved, I think, and he does seem… steadier, for want of a better word.”

“He always had a good character,” Phyllis says softly. She respects Mrs. Hughes and looks up to her, but she has learned more and more to speak her mind, and that is largely thanks to Thomas’s encouragement and example. “I knew him when we were children - he was a dear little boy, before -”

 _Before his father beat it out of him._ She holds herself back from saying it, because Thomas wouldn’t thank her for airing such personal details about his past - details he shared with her in confidence a few short years ago, when he was bedbound and she took trays up to his room several times a day - and takes a deep breath.

“He has had a lot to contend with,” she says instead, perhaps redundantly, because Mrs. Hughes is the only one left in the household besides herself who remembers lifting Thomas’s uncooperative, lifeless body out of the tub, but the housekeeper is gracious enough not to point that out.

“Well, he seems to have taken a good turn and let’s be glad of that for all our sakes, his own especially. Downton wouldn’t be the same without him, in fact it hasn’t been these two days, and that’s more than I ever thought I’d admit to. And I’ll say one more thing - Mr. Barrow was cheated out of a fine opportunity to prove his worth last year when Their Majesties were visiting, and I was sorry for it, but he took it more gracefully than I would have expected. Showed real maturity, I thought. Well,” she adds with a glint in her eye, “I’m not sure slamming the door in Lady Mary’s face did, but I daresay the uppity minx deserved that.”

Phyllis purses her lips in an attempt not to smile, but isn’t entirely successful. “Oh, you know Mr. Barrow - he’s a proud man and has a bit of a temper, but his bark is worse than his bite. Once he went and cooled down, and saw Mr. Carson battle for supremacy of Downton with the redoubtable Mr. Wilson, I think he was rather glad for the holiday. He takes so few personal days.”

She doesn’t mention Mr. Ellis, who had certainly played a part in softening Mr. Barrow’s mood following the dismissal, because the less talk about that the better. Thankfully, the depth of their rapport seemed to have escaped most people’s attention at the time, a stroke of luck probably owed to the excitement generated by the presence of a son of Windsor under their roof, which seemed to have left only Daisy, their resident republican, unmoved.

“Hmm.” Mrs. Hughes nods, distracted by thoughts of her own. “I admit I was rather surprised when he said he was taking two days to visit family. I was always under the impression he was estranged from his living relatives.”

Phyllis picks up her mending again, focusing on her stitches as she stalls for a moment and prepares herself to lie. The cover story she and Thomas concocted together will hold up, of that she is sure, but she is thankful that Mrs. Hughes is the first to ask in detail, as she doesn't trust her ability to lie convincingly to too many people. She could see it pained Thomas to ask such a favour of her in the first place, because he knows more than anyone else how much she hates to deceive, but knowing that she would help - and better yet, protect - him by doing so has helped her push past any reticence on her part.

“That was quite true for a long time,” she says, heart in her throat, “but he has been corresponding with his sisters more lately, and the eldest asked that he come to see her for her birthday. It seemed too fine an opportunity to start mending fences, so I encouraged him to accept the invitation.”

“You counseled him well, then,” Mrs. Hughes says slowly. “Life is too short to always be on a war footing with one’s own family.”

“I agree.”

“I admit I had noticed the influx of letters addressed to Mr. Barrow,” Mrs. Hughes goes on ruminating, “as well as his own frequent trips to the post office, but… well, a man’s private business is his own, isn’t it? Didn’t seem proper to pry.”

“Quite right.” Phyllis can’t remember the last time she paid this much attention to a stitch she could do blindfolded if need be, but she can feel Mrs. Hughes’s eyes boring into her forehead and knows that if she looks up now, the ruse will crumble. She is not that good a liar, and Mrs. Hughes is not a fool.

After a few unbearably long, breathless moments, Phyllis senses Mrs. Hughes’s scrutiny waning, and ventures a glance across the table, carefully guarding her expression.

“I am glad, Miss Baxter,” she says, “very glad that Mr. Barrow is doing well in his personal relationships. I wish him every bit of happiness.”

Phyllis smiles - whether the subterfuge has worked or not, she can’t help but emphatically agree with Mrs. Hughes’s statement and is about to say so when Mrs. Patmore bustles into the servants’ hall and instantly fills it with her formidable presence, rendering all other conversation impossible.

“What’s that about Mr. Barrow?” she hollers, having overheard the tail end of their conversation, and Phyllis catches Mrs. Hughes reaching for her temple, as though the sound of Mrs. Patmore’s voice hurts her head. “Any word of him yet? I thought we would have had the pleasure of welcoming him back in our midst by now.”

“There hasn’t been any telegram,” Phyllis quietly replies, “but I think he was supposed to arrive with the four o’clock train, Mrs. Patmore.”

“And so I did, Miss Baxter, right on schedule.”

The three women turn at the sound of Mr. Barrow’s voice and find him standing in the doorway in his dark overcoat and hat, suitcase in hand. It has been raining on and off all day, and his hat and shoulders are wet from the walk up to the house.

“Why, Mr. Barrow,” Mrs. Patmore merrily exclaims, “speak of the devil.”

For a fraction of a second, Phyllis can see him stiffening, and he lifts his chin up slightly, surveying the cook with a frown as though trying to work out if she’s having a go at him. Phyllis cringes, and wishes Mrs. Patmore would have practised just a little more tact. After a long and somewhat painful silence, Mr. Barrow finally responds with a neutral, “And a good afternoon to you, too.”

“We’re glad to have you back in time for supper,” she adds, only to march into the hallway yelling, “Daisy! You can start on those potatoes, Mr. Barrow’s back.” From the kitchen, they all hear Daisy’s reply of _yes, Mrs. Patmore_ and _welcome back, Mr. Barrow._ Mrs. Patmore briefly pokes her head back into the hall. “Bangers and mash in your honour tonight, Mr. Barrow, and peach cobbler for dessert.”

He perks up considerably at that, and takes off his hat to run a gloved hand across his pomaded hair. He’s had it cut since the day before last, Phyllis realises in surprise. The look suits him, and he looks well, although there’s a sadness behind the eyes that pains her. She so hates seeing him downcast.

“Thank you, Mrs. Patmore,” he says, more warmly this time, and the cook disappears, presumably to go check up on what Daisy is doing and tell her how to do it better.

“Aren’t you a lucky man,” Mrs. Hughes remarks, as Phyllis gets up to take Thomas’s coat and hat and usher him to his chair at the head of the table. That, too, has been unoccupied for the past two days. Thomas opens his jacket and sits down with a sigh.

“I’ll be honest, Mrs. Hughes,” he says. “I barely spared Downton a thought these past couple days, but dinnertime was the exception.”

“Are you saying your sister can’t cook?” she asks, not missing a beat, and Phyllis sends Thomas a look over Mrs. Hughes’s head as she hangs up his coat. Thankfully, deceit comes a lot more naturally to him than it does to her.

“She cooks just fine,” he says wearily - which could be feigned, but somehow she doesn’t think it is. “It just isn’t her livelihood, the way it is for Mrs. Patmore.”

“Mrs. Patmore cooked for the King and Emperor,” Phyllis reminds Mrs. Hughes helpfully, “there aren’t many can say that.”

“That’s true, but let’s not remind Mrs. Patmore of that, or we won’t hear the end of it today.” Mrs. Hughes gives a little eye roll that coaxes a smile from Thomas. “Well, you may not have missed us, Mr. Barrow, but I for one am glad Downton doesn’t have to be without its butler any longer. Feels like the natural order of things is restored, now that you’re back.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, Mrs. Hughes,” he says, his voice taking on a prickly tone. “No one is unmissable, I think that was sufficiently proven last July.”

Phyllis’s stomach clenches. “Mrs. Hughes was just saying how sorry she is about that,” she interjects, hoping to defuse what could become an unpleasant situation before Mr. Barrow has even warmed his seat, but judging by the look Mrs. Hughes gives her, she’s only made things worse by interfering.

“I can hold my own, Miss Baxter, thank you,” she says somewhat sharply, and Thomas blinks.

“Is that true, Mrs.Hughes?” he asks, in a considerably less confrontational tone.

“It is, since you asked. I thought it was wrong of Lady Mary to barge in like that and ask Mr. Carson to take up the baton again, knowing full well that man can’t refuse her anything. The last thing my husband needs in his condition is stress, do you think I wanted him to manage a royal invasion of all things? No,” she continues before Thomas can answer the rhetorical question, “I was not the least bit pleased, Mr. Barrow, for his sake or yours.”

“I ‘pologise, Mrs. Hughes,” Thomas mutters, and they are all spared further awkwardness by the arrival of Daisy, who brings Mr. Barrow a steaming cup of Earl Grey.

“Good having you back, Mr. Barrow,” she says. “Andy told me t’say hello.”

“Thank you, Daisy.” He gives her a grateful smile. “How is life at the farm treating you?”

They chat for a minute, until Mrs. Patmore can be heard shrilling from the kitchen for Daisy to _get a bloody move on, girl_ and Daisy hastily departs with an eye roll and a promise of a perfect peach cobbler. Things downstairs are always like this, people flitting in and out of the servants’ hall constantly, from dawn till dusk, and today is no exception - barely has Daisy left and Thomas taken his first sip of tea or they hear footfalls coming down the stairs and a voice - Anna’s.

“Let's go and check, Master George, if the train ran on time he should be back by now.”

Thomas quickly sets his cup down, and Phyllis - and surely Mrs. Hughes, as well - can see his face light up as the young master of the house walks in, followed closely by Anna, who is carrying one of Lady Mary’s riding coats over her arm. “Hello, Mr. Barrow,” pipes up George, who recently learned to properly enunciate the letter ‘r’, much to everyone’s regret.

“Hello, Master George. What brings you down here?” Surprised and clearly quite moved, Thomas receives the hug George gives him before hopping onto his lap.

“I wanted to see if you were back yet,” the lad announces in his bright, clear voice, and Anna smiles.

“He’s been pestering Nanny about it all day,” she says, with a pointed look at George, “and me. Nanny finally couldn’t take it anymore and let me take him down to see his friend Mr. Barrow. Just for a few minutes, mind.”

“I missed you,” declares George, ignoring the reminder. He’ll probably try to milk those few minutes for as far as they will stretch. “Why did you go?”

“I told you before I left, Master George. I needed to visit some family and they don’t live nearby, that’s why I was gone a few days.”

“Well, I didn’t like it,” the young master says imperiously, and pouts. “You are my friend, Mr. Barrow, don’t you always say so?”

Thomas nods. “I do, and I am. But family is important as well, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose,” George concedes with a serious expression, considering this, only for his face to light up with a mischievous grin the next moment. “As important as me?”

They all laugh, and George looks delighted with his comedic success. He is only six years old, after all, but then the lordly manners his Mama has been teaching him take over. “Did you have a pleasant family visit, Mr. Barrow?’ he asks, in a pompous tone unbefitting a young boy, but the effect is endearing instead of jarring.

“I certainly did, milord,” Thomas replies with playful deference, executing a tiny bow. “Thank you for asking.”

“And you won’t leave again?” George asks in his normal voice. He looks worried, and seems to want to reassure himself that these past two days were a one-time-only state of affairs and that he won’t have to suffer through another Barrow-less era again. He gets on perfectly well with Mr. Talbot, who has taken to the lad like a father to a son, but he has remained loyal to his friend Barrow throughout, which is rather lovely to see. It is a trait Phyllis hopes will carry through into his adulthood.

Thomas hesitates for just a moment, and Phyllis smiles at the table, curious as to how he will respond. She can’t wait to speak to him privately and gauge his state of mind when there are no others present. She is fully prepared for him not to say much - he can be cagey about private matters - but he won’t have to. If he is in love, she will know.

“Not for a while yet, Master George,” Thomas finally says, and even though he smiles, there is a look of sadness that crosses his face, so quickly that Phyllis doubts anyone but her has noticed. “Not for a while yet.”

When George’s minutes are up and Anna takes him back upstairs, Thomas finishes his tea and announces he’d like to unpack and change before dinner. Mrs. Patmore confirms he’ll have the time, so when he picks up his suitcase and goes upstairs, Phyllis seizes her chance and follows him. He seems resigned to what he surely knows will follow, and she is sorry to make him uncomfortable, but after covering and lying for him she reckons she is owed some recompense.

“These are the men’s quarters, you know,” he halfheartedly splutters as he pushes into his room and throws the suitcase on his bed.

“No one cares about that anymore, least of all you.” She closes the door behind her. “Well? How was it?”

He glowers at her as he opens the lid of his suitcase. “Are you going to watch me unpack my dirty laundry as you interrogate me, Miss Baxter?”

“I have seen more shocking things in my lifetime than your used underwear, Thomas, don’t flatter yourself.” She watches him busy himself from her spot by the door, taking things from his suitcase and carrying them to the hamper. “Come on, Thomas, I’ve been on tenterhooks for you all this time. Did you meet him in York as planned?” She gets a nod. _Progress._ “And?”

“It was _fine_ ,” he tells her, indistinct, bent over his suitcase, and she decides that a less direct approach might achieve more.

“I am surprised you found the time to go to the barber,” she says as he leans up with a book she’s seen him reading, and even though he turns away to place it on his bedside table she can tell he is blushing. It is this, the rose colour of his cheeks, that tells her all she wanted to know, and her heart leaps.

“I… I didn’t.” There is a pause. He fidgets, his hands empty, and he reaches into his suitcase to fill them with something. “It was him. This morning, after… Yeah. This morning.”

She has difficulty containing her smile. “Well, he knows what he’s about. You look very handsome.”

She is sure that Mr. Ellis agrees with her assessment, but she doesn’t say that. He is uncomfortable enough as it is.

“Yeah, he’s… he’s very good.” He ducks his head, his reply so soft that she has to strain her ears to understand what he is saying. This is like pulling teeth from a chicken - she will have to choose her words even more carefully.

“Will you see him again?”

At this, his demeanour changes - he straightens up to meet her gaze, with a challenging, almost defiant look in his eyes. Quietly, he answers with just one word. “Yes.”

His reply, paired with the determination she sees in his face, sends a shudder down her spine. She is pleased for him, and pleased to see him grasping for this shot at happiness instead of pushing it away, but something in her wants to tell him to be careful - she was already worried for him this time. She stops herself at the last moment, however, knowing how much he hates being coddled and patronised. Besides, she doubts there is any advice she could give him that he couldn’t give himself. And Mr. Ellis seemed like a sensible sort of man in his own right.

“Thomas, I’m so happy for you,” she says instead, and she can see his body stiffening at that, his hands momentarily freezing in midair. “I am, truly. You deserve this.”

“Thanks,” he says hoarsely, awkwardly, and it prompts her to move across the room towards him and wrap him in a sideways hug. She doesn’t usually touch him, in fact the last time she held him in her arms was when they were children and she was a head taller than him - _how the tables have turned_ \- but her heart goes out to him so fondly that she can’t stay distant.

“Are _you_?" she asks him, looking up at his face. He stands in her embrace as one turned to stone, but at least he lets her do this and doesn’t reject her affection. “Are you happy, Thomas?”

“Uh,” he stammers, and swallows visibly. “I -” His bottom lip trembles, and he bites it to make it stop. Turns his head away from her slightly as he grapples for a response to that question.

Thomas Barrow, happy. She hopes to one day hear the words pass his lips, but today may be too early, too fragile. The look that had crossed his face when he was talking to George is still fresh in her mind, and she grieves for him, for the difficulties he will always have to face in obtaining what others take for granted, for the fact that he can never live his life out in the open but has to hide and lie to get crumbs, merely, crumbs of happiness where ordinary folks get a luxurious buffet to dine on till they burst.

“You can let yourself, you know,” she tells him softly. “Be happy. Nothing bad will happen if you do.”

“You don’t know that,” he croaks, face still turned away, and she squeezes his waist, wondering if it’s time to step away and give him some space, but then he puts a tentative hand on her arm. Not pushing her away, though, just resting there, acknowledging, quietly accepting what she’s offering.

“I know the world doesn’t work like that. You won’t be smitten down by some hand coming down from the heavens the minute you allow yourself to feel a little joy.”

He chokes out a strange sound, but seems to collect himself somewhat, turning his head so she can at least see his face again, even if he doesn’t look at her directly.

“Oh, well,” he says, with a shrug and a halfhearted attempt at levity, “I’m sure nothing at all will come of this anyway. A couple letters and two days of folly in the countryside, and that’s that. He’s probably on his way back to London by now, give it a week and he’ll have forgotten all about me. Thomas Barrow who?”

For half a second, it is oh so tempting to swat him over the head, but she can see what he is doing here and of course she doesn’t - she knows him too well to be fooled. “Don’t be daft,” she scolds him gently. “You don’t think so lowly of him, or yourself, to truly believe that nonsense.”

He blinks, letting her words sink in for a moment, then smiles - a slight, fleeting thing that doesn’t settle on his face, but so powerful all the same - and murmurs with almost embarrassed acquiescence, “... No.”

Something in his face seems to lighten at the admission, like a cloud pulling back to reveal the sun, and she decides this is enough, this is enough for now. She won’t push him any further but give him some space to acclimatise before he has to come down again and face everyone at dinner. They may be fewer now but supper can still be a boisterous affair. She rubs his shoulder affectionately as she takes a small step away.

“I’ll let you unpack.” He nods, staring into the suitcase like it is a mountain to be climbed. “Did that sweater come in handy like I told you it would?” She had been in the room with him when he packed for the trip, going over the final details for the cover story they would tell downstairs, and she’d remarked on the fact that he seemed to be putting only shirts in his suitcase, to be worn under his jacket. When she suggested he take something warmer, more suited to the country, he’d held off at first and seemed to find her concern rather mystifying. Being a proper bloke, he clearly hadn’t realised bringing some warm casualwear to a country cottage might be a smart idea, but she persisted and he was eventually persuaded to pack the blue sweater. She is surprised to see his blush reappear in full force the second she brings it up again.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, stammering, face on fire. “It really did, Phyl, thanks again for the suggestion. Got pretty damn cold out there. Sorry,” he adds, in reference to the curse word, but it’s the use of the nickname, a callback to their childhoods he uses only when they’re alone, that makes her smile.

“Where is it?” she asks, because it doesn’t seem to be in the suitcase and she hasn’t seen him put it in the hamper either, and now he is full on fidgeting as well as blushing.

“I, uh, don’t have it anymore.”

“Oh?” This is strange - it isn’t like him to just forget something like that. “Did you leave it at the house?”

“No. I, ah -” He pulls at his collar as though it’s bothering him, but she suspects he’s just being antsy. “Gave it to someone who wore it better.”

“Oh,” she says, unable to hide her surprise, because a personal item of clothing seems quite a significant gift to bestow, but she is pleased - pleased for him, pleased for what it means. But she doesn’t want to risk making him retreat into his shell by expressing her delight, so she settles for a more neutral, “I’m sure he appreciated the offering.”

“I hope so,” Thomas says, to her mounting surprise. His blush shows no signs of abating yet. “I - I didn’t so much offer it to him as, er, sneak it into his suitcase while he wasn’t looking.”

Here, Phyllis lets out a tiny gasp. “Did you? Oh, Thomas, that’s so -”

“Please, don’t tell me I’m sweet.”

She smiles. She had actually meant to say _romantic_ but that probably wouldn’t have been received much better. “All right, I won’t.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

He looks at her the way he would when they butted heads as children, chin jutted out defiantly. She half expects him to stick out his tongue at her. “And I am glad of it.”

She lets him have the last word and glances at the clock, deciding it is time to give him his privacy and let him recalibrate. Touching his arm to let him know she isn’t departing out of anger, she reiterates, “I’ll leave you to it. It is coming up on dinnertime and Her Ladyship will ring for me soon.”

He nods and lets out a sigh, as if deflating himself. “Thank you, Phyl.”

She goes downstairs, in hopes of finishing her mending before Her Ladyship rings, but barely has she sat down or the telephone in the butler’s pantry starts ringing off its hook. She resumes her mending all the same, because she saw Mrs. Hughes out in the hallway earlier and she is the more obvious choice to pick up in Mr. Barrow’s absence. Hierarchy isn’t the be-all and end-all it once was, but Mr. Carson especially wouldn’t have liked a lady’s maid answering the telephone.

“Oh, Miss Baxter,” says Mrs. Hughes, sticking her head around the door while the ringing continues, “that’ll be Mr. Molesley for you. He telephoned from the school earlier when you were upstairs and said he’d try again later.”

Phyllis suppresses a sigh and puts down her needle and thread once more, resigning herself to the fact that she’ll have to continue after supper. “I’ll take it, Mrs. Hughes, thank you.”

She goes into the butler’s pantry, leaving the door open so as to keep one ear pricked up for the bell board - she likes to think she can recognise Her Ladyship’s chime by ear only. She reaches for the telephone and picks up the receiver between two rings.

“Downton Abbey, the butler’s line,” she rattles off, “you are speaking to Her Ladyship’s maid.”

“Ah - that would be Miss Baxter?” says the caller, and while it isn’t Mr. Molesley’s voice coming from the other end, she thinks she recognises it all the same. The accent is a dead giveaway, and she smiles, glancing over her shoulder to check if the coast is clear.

“This is she,” she says, lowering her voice to be safe. “How are you, Mr. Ellis?”

“Incredibly well, thank you.” He laughs unaffectedly. “How about yourself, and everyone else at the Abbey?”

“We are all very well. Mrs. Patmore and Daisy are preparing the upstairs dinner as well as Mr. Barrow’s favourite dish and dessert - he is right chuffed about it.” She waits, heart pounding, as her words land on the other end of the line.

“That sounds lovely. I would very much like to ask you to pass on my warmest regards, but -” He trails off, and she understands.

“Perhaps another time would be better,” she softly suggests. “Are you already back in London, Mr. Ellis? That seems awfully quick.”

“No, I am at my parents’ in York. My mother persuaded me to stay for dinner - I will be catching the seven o’clock, so I will be home quite late, I’m afraid. A good thing the capital never sleeps.”

“Good of you to accept the invitation,” she says seriously. “Time spent with loved ones is time spent well, especially when one lives a ways away.”

“Words after my own heart, Miss Baxter,” he says in a similar tone. “But I feel I have kept you chatting long enough, especially since it’s coming up on a busy time of day for you all. I was only wondering if… I might quickly speak to Mr. Barrow. I gather he made it home all right?”

“Oh yes, he arrived earlier this afternoon and seems very well.” _Not unlike Mr. Ellis himself._ “I just left him upstairs a few minutes ago, to unpack and get changed.”

“Oh,” Mr. Ellis says, disappointment permeating even that one small word, “right, of course, I called at a bad time. I’ll let you go, and try again later.”

“No, wait,” she says quickly, before he can break the connection, “please, don’t hang up. It is not a bad time, and Mr. Barrow will be very glad of your call. I would go and fetch him myself, but I have to stay downstairs and wait for Her Ladyship to ring. I’ll send Albert up instead.”

Because she can’t stop picturing in her mind the look of sadness that had crossed Thomas’s face earlier, how overwhelmed he had seemed upstairs, and she knows that if anyone can make Thomas smile again, it is the man she is currently speaking to.

“You are very kind, but I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You aren’t,” she assures him. “Mr. Barrow’ll want to take your call, I know he will, but it may take a few minutes to get him down. But he’ll come, if you’ll just hold. You will hold, won’t you?”

A pity for poor Mr. Molesley, but she reckons he will live. Besides, he is within walking distance of the Abbey and Mr. Ellis decidedly is not.

“Do London and fog go together?” A chuckle. “Yes, Miss Baxter, I will hold. Please, do go back to what you were doing before I called, but if I may say one last thing… I’d like to thank you.” His tone changes, becomes warmer and more solemn, but she also hears the slightest hint of hesitation, as if he has to conquer something before continuing to speak. “I know that you… encouraged Mr. Barrow, to take this trip. For that I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Oh, Mr. Ellis,” she says, forgetting for a moment to lower her voice, and she glances over her shoulder to reassure herself before answering, “No gratitude or thanks needed, I assure you. Mr. Barrow asked my advice and I gave it, as his friend, having only his happiness in mind. Truly, it was nothing.”

“But see, I do owe you my thanks for that,” he kindly insists. “I realise you have known him a lot longer than I have and you may find me overbearing, but -”

“Not at all.”

“But,” he resumes, “at the risk of being inappropriate, in which case I hope you’ll forgive me, men like us - we can never have enough allies in this world. So the fact that you call yourself his friend, and look out for his best interest - well, that is not nothing, I assure you. It is anything but nothing.”

He is adamant, almost heated, and she is taken aback by his sincerity. “Well, Mr. Ellis, I promise you I am not the least bit scandalised by your words, so there is nothing to forgive, but I will admit to being quite humbled. I have been fond of Mr. Barrow a long time, and I never considered letting his nature change that. I’m not sure why anyone would.”

“You are a singular woman, Miss Baxter,” Mr. Ellis says earnestly, and she blushes. Dear God, if anyone were to walk by and catch her blushing while presumably on the telephone with Mr. Molesley, she’ll never hear the end of the teasing.

“I’ll go and find Albert,” she murmurs. “You have a safe and pleasant journey back to London, Mr. Ellis.”

She is about to lay down the receiver when she hears him saying, “Oh, Miss Baxter, one last question, if you’ll indulge me.”

“Yes?” she asks, somewhat warily, and it occurs to her that if he ever were to consider leaving domestic service, he would make a fine salesman. The thought makes her smile.

She is, however, wholly unprepared for the question that ends up coming down the line.

“Only with a certain date coming up in a few days, I was wondering…” He pauses, and clears his throat, and all of a sudden she imagines him with a boyish grin on his face. “Does Mr. Barrow like chocolate, to your knowledge?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and... until soon? ❤


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